Bared and Beloved
by Sophie Rae
Summary: Darcy has just been rejected by Elizabeth, thrown into an unfamiliar world of uncertainty and self-doubt. Her rebuke forces him to take stock of his life and become a better man. Perhaps if fate is on his side, his struggles will be rewarded, and she will be placed on his path again. This is the original Pride and Prejudice story, the second half, from Darcy and other gents' POV.
1. Chapter 1

Bared and Beloved

Chapter One

Waterloo

Darcy Fitzwilliam

Once when Darcy was very young, he snuck into the larder and stole an entire ham. The ham weighed as much as his little frame, but he dragged that thing, sweaty and heaving, out of the kitchens, across the great lawn, over the bridge that stretched across the fishing pond, to a hovel of weeds, where a stray dog and her litter was encamped. The young Darcy patted that mutt on her filthy head, stripping off pieces of meat and letting her lick his fingers raw. When the Pemberley cook discovered that her prized-centerpiece had been pilfered, she set the downstairs ablaze with her fury, blaming one footman after another, until Darcy's mother caught wind of the theft, and sniffing a whiff of bacon from her dusty, mussed boy, presented him before the raging cook as the wanted culprit.

"There now, Betty, no need to shout anymore. We have solved the mystery," his mother said. The cook's beet-red face blanched and her wobbling jowls shivered with indignation, but her tone was as placid as a clear sky when she quickly apologized for her anger and reminded him that the little master need only ask if he wanted anything.

Years later, the cook's deference remained engrained in Darcy's mind. There she had stood, decades his elder, morally in the right, her apron soaked through in the tears and perspiration of her justified anger, and when he had been identified as the thief, she had been utterly humbled, forced by rank and rites to suppress her own feelings so as not to offend her superiors' whims. It was in that moment when Darcy, a boy of no more than five or six years old, had discovered that some people think that they own something, when in fact they do not. The cook had sobbed and railed and searched for something which had never been hers in the first place. But for Darcy, well for the master of Pemberley, the world was not only his for the taking, it was his already.

For more than twenty years, he did not encounter a single situation where this childhood lesson had not stood true. His belief in its infallibility might have endured for the entirety of his life—if not for Elizabeth Bennet. She rejected his love, rebuked his proposal, and summarily re-educated him. _All_ people think that things are theirs, only to discover that in fact they are not. At long last, the master of Pemberley had become the cook.

~0~

After delivering the letter to Elizabeth, Darcy made fast work of the remainder of his final day at Rosings. From the park, he went directly to the parsonage, correctly guessing that Elizabeth's lecture of his letter would keep her away from Hunsford. He approached the small home, ignoring the sharp remembrances from yesterday that the sight of it conjured, and departed from the haunting place as soon as politeness allowed. He discovered Fitzwilliam yet lingered there and did not press his cousin to join him on his return up to Rosings. He appreciated the colonel's sacrifice of remaining at Hunsford to provide Elizabeth ample opportunity to seek Fitzwilliam out and ask any questions; enduring Mr. Collins' platitudes for any length of time was a great feat of perseverance for which Darcy would later thank his cousin.

Darcy arrived at Rosings within minutes, no thrashing detours through the long grasses on this trip. He found Lady Catherine, Anne, and Mrs. Jenkins in Anne's smaller apartment on the second floor, a tight, dainty room, void of any of her late father's beloved but drafty windows. The only light which filtered in was from a ship's skylight on the ceiling. On this warm day, it was more than a little stifling. The discomfort matched Darcy's mood. He entered the apartment to bide his time with his relatives and distract his mind. He would leave at first light tomorrow morning, and while the wait seemed interminable, he at least must take the dreary remains of this day to thank his aunt for her hospitality. Her ladyship waved off his formalities which he offered upon his entrance, pestering him about his tour of the park and whether he had called at the parsonage for the final time. He answered her intrusive inquiries with as little detail and as much praise of the Rosings grounds as politeness and honesty allowed.

"As ever, there is an open invitation for Anne and you to visit Georgiana and I at Pemberley this summer," he said as an obligatory afterthought.

"Visit Pemberley?" Lady Catherine wrinkled her eyes, the folds of skin rippling over her sharp brow. "I would never think of traveling with Anne in the summer! Why, it would drain her of all energy—you ought to remember things like this, Darcy. You _must_ remember things like this."

"Of course," Darcy bowed his head at Anne. "Your health precedes all."

"Indeed, it does. Nothing ought to come before Anne's health. Certainly not a flight of fancy to Pemberley, as dear as Georgiana and you are to us."

That last remark was paired with a frightening smile, and Darcy wondered whether he ought to come clean with his aunt before taking leave of her today. It was cruel of him to permit her to run wild with her fantasies about a marriage between Anne and himself. He had learned only too well the severity of disappointment after soaring the heights of unalloyed hope. Hesitating, he glanced at Anne. She met his gaze, her large, pale eyes unusually bright.

"I would love to see Georgiana." Anne said, her voice a wisp of cobwebs. "It has been too long since last we met. But mama is right. I cannot travel in the summer. Please bring her to us next year, Darcy, or if you cannot come, send her in your stead."

"Cannot come? Are you unwell again, Anne? Of course, Darcy, will come to us next year, if not before. _He_ is not derelict in his duties, as are other nephews whose names I shall not utter." Lady Catherine pursed her lips. "A year really is too long, Darcy. Perhaps you can visit us at Michealmas."

"Lord Fitzwilliam is not lazy, mama. He is married, and you offended his wife. That is why he no longer visits us," Anne replied, to the surprise of all in the room. Mrs. Jenkins even fell off the edge of her chair, her embarrassment ignored by the others, although the brightness of the color of her pantaloons could not be as easily disregarded.

"Anne?" Lady Catherine asked. "Answer me now, have you taken a new tonic? You are not yourself."

"I am well," she shrugged at her stunned mother, "I am quite myself." Anne raised her feeble chin and looked back at Darcy. "Do not feel as if you must visit us earlier in the year. I am confident that you will be occupied during that festive season, cousin."

Darcy had no reply to give his cousin, mystified by her comments. It was as if she knew of his admiration for Elizabeth. Anne was so silent, so small and slight, that she slipped from his notice most of the time, but he had the impression that from her overlooked corner of society, she had a clear view of the world which blindly passed her by, a clear view of him passing her over. On those rare occasions when he had thought of his relationship with Anne, he had usually thought of himself, selfishly neglecting her feelings on the matter. Some of Elizabeth's strictures on his antipathy for others sounded in his ears, and he realized that he had often failed at showing friendship to his lonely cousin, afraid that she would mistake his kindness for affection. Practical it may be to refrain from telling Aunt Catherine of his disinterest, but cruel to always make Anne into a caricature of an invalid. Badly done this trip, he silently berated himself.

Darcy looked at Anne, really looked at her, possibly for the first time since they had been children. "I always enjoy my time at Rosings," he said. "Anne, your presence is a solace to me."

She blushed and turned away, and not wanting to spoil the sweetness of the moment, Darcy hurriedly bowed and left the room, before his aunt could say anymore. If he did pat himself on the back for showing his cousin a kindness, and proving Elizabeth wrong, so much the better.

Author's Note:

As another re-hash—this second volume picks up right after Darcy has been rejected by Elizabeth and delivers her the letter. I didn't post the first book on here before putting it online, but I always intended on posting the second volume. Because I need the help and the motivation to finish. :) You lovely readers always help with my motivation. If you like my stuff, you can follow me on Facebook at sophieraewrites. And if you want to read Bored and Bewitched, please find it on Amazon. I also posted the prologue to it on my Facebook page, and the last chapter to it on my profile page here on this site.

I plan on posting a chapter to this book almost daily. And taking a break on most weekends. This is for publication, eventually. Let me know what you think. All chapters are named after movies. I hope you enjoyed.

Oh, and if you saw my little one-shot here, I do think I'm going to add a few more chapters. It's just too fun. Thanks for the reviews to that.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Thanks for the follows and reviews. Just for those who have not read the first part, I believe Darcy knew he was in love with Elizabeth before he left Netherfield. What do you think?

Chapter Two

Something to Talk About

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Darcy and Fitzwilliam departed Rosings at dawn—Darcy's punctuality returned to its exactness now that there no longer remained any reason for delays. The minute they were on the road, with Kent at their carriage's rearward, Darcy confessed all the promised answers to his cousin. It was a dreary, meandering recital for Darcy, which nonetheless managed to excise off some of the venom from his soul, the act of unloading his months' long secret similar to the shedding of a heavy cloak in July, or a purging upheaval following a night of heavy drink. Whatever the analogy, he was lightened by the telling of it.

Fitzwilliam did not interrupt him, though from the sighs and head shakes, he was by no means a passive listener. Darcy finished, with a mirthless laugh and a glance out the window, saying: "It is probably best that I did not divulge all of Wickham's perfidy to her, although I cannot stop worrying if I revealed enough in the letter to alter her opinion of the man."

"And that is your greatest regret about the matter?" Fitzwilliam skeptically asked. "That you may not have blackened Wickham's name enough?"

"It is the only regret over which I feel I had total control to rectify," he countered.

"Hmm." Fitzwilliam frowned. "She did not ask for my testimony—that should give you some comfort."

"I thought you said you did not see her before leaving Hunsford?"

"I did not see her, but a woman as fierce in her independence and opinions as Miss Bennet is, would not be swayed by my actions. Rest assured, she would have come and found me had she needed more proof."

"Perhaps," Darcy said, unconvinced. He had been disappointed when Fitzwilliam had told him last night that he had not spoken with Elizabeth about the letter. Darcy was left to wonder if his account alone had rung with enough truth, or if she had simply thrown the letter to the ground as hogwash and dribble.

"I am sorry, Darcy," Fitzwilliam said, slapping his own knee, "and think I might be partially to blame for some of your troubles."

"In what possible way?"

"I was the one who told Miss Bennet of your interference with Bingley," the colonel admitted. Darcy stared blankly at his cousin, reeling with questions, and Fitzwilliam explained, "I told you the other day how I had seen her during my tour of the park, but not how the subject of you came up during our discussion. I cannot recall now how the conversation worked itself around to your dealings with Bingley last fall, but I told her how you congratulated yourself on saving him from an imprudent marriage. She took exception to my comment, although at the time," here the colonel paused.

"Go on," Darcy pressed him, and with a sigh, his cousin obliged, "Very well. I attributed her interest in my tale to an interest in you, not against you."

When Fitzwilliam had begun his explanation, Darcy's first instinct had been to chastise him for his thoughtlessness and lack of discretion, but with that last, sheepish confession, any ire deflated from him.

"You are not to blame, Fitzwilliam—anymore than Caroline Bingley is, or as much as I loathe admitting it, even George Wickham is. _She_ must know of his true character for her own protection, but as for where the blame must lie, I am afraid it is entirely my own."

"There must be some hope, yet, William," Fitzwilliam said, sounding more like a father than a cousin. "You wrote that letter, for some reason other than to justify yourself. Surely, you must hope that it will soften her heart towards you. Do not despair. She does not know you. She would not have refused you, if she had."

Darcy shook his head, recalling for the second time that day he had stolen the holiday ham and ruined the Pemberley cook's entire meal, and had walked away from the theft guiltless and emboldened. Elizabeth would say that he had been wrong not to take responsibility that day. She would say that his mother, saint that she was, had been wrong not to tell him to apologize to the cook. It did not matter that he had been a witless child helping a lost dog. Elizabeth would tell him that he had been in the wrong. She would say that there had been nothing inherently superior about him compared to the cook. That there still was not.

This was a foreign realization for Darcy, and not one in which he had the faculties to fully appreciate at the moment. All he could think about was how unjustly she had treated him. The sense of unfairness was starting to consume him, a steady blaze that obscured his heartbreak.

"She is unimpressed by rank, by education, by wealth," he bitterly said. "None of these things make a man a gentleman in her eyes. I am not a gentleman in her eyes."

"Come, now, surely she does not think that—she spoke in anger about your behavior, not about your character. She was understandably upset."

"Understandably?"

Fitzwilliam put his palms up. "I speak in good faith, Darcy, but you must allow that it was somewhat duplicitous of you to convince your friend to avoid her sister, when you were in love with her."

"Duplicitous? I had no intention of marrying Elizabeth when I persuaded Bingley to drop his pursuit of Jane Bennet!"

"But you already knew you were in love with her," Fitzwilliam replied, measuring his voice still. "You told me so yourself minutes ago. You knew you were in love with her when you quit Netherfield last November. You need to ask yourself why you worked so hard to keep Bingley away from the Bennet family. Was it to protect your friend or to protect yourself?"

"I thought only of Bingley's happiness," Darcy clipped. "I never once considered my happiness. I had the objections to the match at the ready, to be sure, because I had considered them for myself, but I did not insert myself into Bingley's affairs. I am disappointed that you would impugn me with such blatant selfishness."

"And I am disappointed that you would display such blatant selfishness," Fitzwilliam retorted, stunning Darcy speechless. His cousin grimly went on: "You are one of the most liberal, thoughtful men I have had the good pleasure of knowing. But love is a sickness full of woes, Darcy. And like it or not, you have caught that sickness. It has rattled you. It has humbled you. Buck up, though old boy, there is a cure."

"All remedies refusing, is how the poem goes," Darcy wryly said, suddenly feeling his fatigue from head to heel. He was even too exhausted to muster more resentment at Fitzwilliam. All he wanted now was sleep.

"When she no longer refuses, you shall find remedy enough, I think."

"By she, you mean—"

"Miss Bennet, or should I call her Elizabeth, as you have done this entire carriage ride?" Fitzwilliam raised his brows at Darcy, smirking. "I find it most entertaining that a man as finnicky as you are, has abandoned this particular formality."

Darcy could say nothing in response. He was aware of his persistent impropriety but could not bring himself to refer to her as anything other than Elizabeth. It was the reason he had forgone any specific address in the final draft of his letter to her, apart from the general 'madame.' Any name uttered or written by him other than her own unadorned, given name would flout something dearer to him than social norms.

"See, Darcy," his cousin laughed, "Apologize—grovel, if need be. Come to your senses, and your manners. There is always hope for a cure."

Darcy looked at his cousin with heavy lids. He did not enjoy hearing his faults so placatingly explained to him. He sensed the truthfulness of some of Fitzwilliam's censure, but it was like viewing the sunlight through muddied glass. And in his cousin's attempt to cheer him on and up, Fitzwilliam was forgetting one material fact.

"She said I was the last man in the world whom she would ever marry—the very last. You spoke of hope. Here is my hope—that I am raised a smidgen in her estimation, just enough to be replaced by that dog Wickham." Darcy leaned his head back against the seat and crossed his arms. "Now, I have told you everything. Let us never speak of it again. I want to sleep and forget all this."

With that, Darcy closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep, not stirring until the carriage doors opened and the footman welcomed him to his London home. Fitzwilliam descended the carriage first, and Darcy followed, shrugging away the sleepiness. He adjusted his coat jacket and looked up at the tall, familiar house, noticing the friendly face of Georgiana in the upstairs window.

A fresh wave of remorse crashed down on him. He had forgotten that she would already be down here, as she had not prolonged her Easter holiday with Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam. What different tidings he had expected to bring to his sister this day! She smiled at him, and he waved up at her, before slowly walking up the porch steps. Fitzwilliam waited for him in the doorway, a knowing look of pity on his face.

"I shall be well enough," he assured his cousin and walked into the house.

It struck Darcy later that night that those were the exact words which Bingley had said to him after deciding to remain in London and abandon Netherfield. Darcy doubted Bingley would thank him now for the advice. Evidently, Darcy had been the one to see love where there was none, and see none where there was love.

Darcy debated over confessing his error in judgement to Bingley, but quickly banished the idea. Elizabeth had said nothing of where Jane Bennet's heart was at present, and Darcy was not a man to make the same mistake twice. Who was he to assume the lady still cherished the supposed affections which her sister claimed she had once felt for his friend? What if Jane Bennet had moved on, as was likely the case? What good could come of Darcy telling Bingley that he could have had her love for the asking? No, he must carry the full burden of that mistake until Bingley recovered and found someone new, or until by some miracle, he secured Jane Bennet's hand in marriage. Darcy considered that event as likely as his chances with Elizabeth. He stuttered over that reflection, spurred onward to make another secret oath.

Until brighter days, he would remain silent to Bingley about his failed attempt to marry a Bennet daughter. He could not risk hindering the repair of his friend's heart by sharing his sorrow now. It would be selfish to add to Bingley's misery, or remind him of that darkness, if his friend had carried on to a happier place. Part of this decision came as a boon to Darcy. The confession of his greatest shame to his beloved cousin had been hard enough; he could not endure confiding in anyone else, not when the wound was so recent and barely staunched.

"I must ride out the storm alone," he vowed to himself. "And be a better caretaker of my friend during its passing."

This promise lifted some of the heaviness from his heart. He would seek Bingley out tomorrow and observe how his friend fared. Nothing could deter him from this course of action. It was not as if he had any other pressing engagement.


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: So it's interesting to me that this take on P &P from the gents' POV does not seem to strike as many of my readers with the same kind of interest. Because these are my favorite kind of what-ifs, or rather, who-ifs. But I really appreciate those who enjoy this rehash. Thanks for the support! Here is the first short chapter from a different guy's mind...the lovable Bingley. _

Chapter Three

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

Charles Bingley

Bingley had started to wonder if he required a witch doctor. He was certain he had already been cursed. For months now, he had been seeing someone who was not actually there. He would see this person in the park, as he had first done on a stroll with Caroline. He would see this person buying fruit from a vendor. He would see this person at a music hall or theater, outside his club or through a dress shop window. Wherever he went these days, there would be a moment or two when he would be forced to look twice at someone, convinced on that first, cursory glance that he had spied Jane Bennet in his periphery. It never was Miss Bennet on that second glance, but the breath of anticipation between that first and second look never ceased to thrill, nor that moment of false recognition cease to disappoint. He would smile awkwardly at the blonde maiden, or blush, or stammer some incoherent apology for staring, and hurry along on his way, determining to stop looking for someone who was most certainly miles away from him. And this was why he knew he was cursed and needed some shaman to lift the hex—the very next time he braved the outdoors, his eyes would undoubtedly fool him into thinking he had seen her again.

Today, he was on his way to his club to meet with Darcy, and as he rounded the corner to the club's entrance, a pretty young woman crossed his path. Her pink skirts billowed past him, brushing against his trousers, and he had to literally hold down his wrist from reaching out to touch the familiar fabric. The woman failed to notice his struggle, even as he succeeded in noticing that she was not the young woman who haunted him. Still, his cheeks flamed red and he dashed up the stairs, embarrassed by his madness.

"I shall end up in Bedlam," he muttered as he divested of his effects and removed his cloak. It was a drizzly, chilly day and his suit jacket had been insufficient for the weather. Droplets of rain oozed down through his tight curls and he shook the wet from his head as he searched for Darcy in the upper rooms of their club. He found his friend in a large chaise beside a hot hearth, his face hidden behind a newspaper. Bingley smirked at the sight, warming at the familiarity of the scene. This was the picture he would draw should some fool commission him to take a likeness of Darcy.

"I always tell myself I ought to be more of a reading man, but then soon come to my senses—why should I waste my time indoors and with my nose getting dirty from ink, when I can spend my time out of doors and rely on you to keep me informed?"

Darcy peeked his head around the large folds of paper: "I should offer you misinformation, just to spite you for your ignorance."

Bingley laughed and sat down in the empty chair across from Darcy. He watched Darcy fold the newspaper into fourths and set it on the table beside him, taking the unnecessary steps of creasing the folds into perfect lines and even halves.

"Nary a mistake, eh, Darcy?"

Spoken in jest, Bingley was surprised by the sad expression which flitted over Darcy's face. It passed so quickly, though, Bingley casually wondered if he might have imagined that too. He slapped his hands on his knees and grinned.

"It is good to see you, Darcy. It has been dreary in London since you went up to Kent. How are they all at Rosings? I see you are still without an engagement."

"What?" Darcy sharply said.

"No engagement to Miss de Bourgh," Bingley slowly explained. "Forgive me. I was merely teasing you that your aunt has not gotten her way with you, yet."

"Oh, of course." Darcy glanced away for a moment, wooling some lint on his shirtsleeve. He looked back over and smiled. "It must be the rain, Bingley. I fear I am not the best company today, but do not take my mood as evidence of my displeasure. It is good to see you as well."

Bingley waved genially at him, all worry forgotten. "I know you well enough, Darcy. I would never be offended by some trifling temper."

"You are comfort itself."

"I do try, but I cannot claim many other virtues," he laughed.

"Such as punctuality?" Darcy glanced at the clock above the mantle.

Bingley shrugged. "I am not that truant. It is still suitable to drink tea at this hour, and if memory serves me right, you are late to London. I had thought you would be back in town a week ago, at least."

"I had some delays in Kent."

"Anything worthy of mentioning?"

"Not at all," Darcy answered. "My trip was uneventful."

"That is a shame to hear. I had hoped you would have some droll anecdote to share. Her ladyship must not have been in form this year."

"She was as she always is, perhaps a bit more distracted. She has a new parson who likes nothing better than to flatter her—in fact, you met the gentleman last fall." Darcy unexpectedly stopped talking.

"I met the gentleman before?" Bingley prompted, confused.

Darcy cleared his throat. "Yes. It is Mr. Collins, that parson who attended your ball. He married Charlotte Lucas, Sir William's eldest daughter, over the winter."

At the mention of the ball, Bingley could now picture the rector—that chubby, ruddy-faced man, the cousin to Jane Bennet. Bingley smiled quietly at his friend. Clearly Darcy had wanted to protect him from sad remembrances. Little did Darcy know that he could not walk the streets of London without seeing her. She was with him always.

"He was a serious, odd fellow, wasn't he?" Bingley mused, wistful of discussing anyone connected to Hertfordshire. "I should like to see how he behaves around your aunt. Although I have never met her, I feel as if I know her. Do they get on well?"

"As well as anyone in their respective positions can."

"He made a good match. Miss Lucas—or I suppose I ought to call her Mrs. Collins—always came across as very clever to me.

"She is a steadying influence in his life, to be sure. They appeared very happy in their marriage."

"Then he is blessed, and I rather envy him."

Bingley had not meant to let that regret slip out. He did not wish to dwell on hopeless topics. He was about to say something jolly and change the tone, when to his surprise, Darcy, wearing an unmistakably sad expression, agreed, "I rather envy him too."

Bingley knew not how to reply but was spared the trouble by Darcy's timely suggestion that they play a round of billiards. They passed the remainder of the day in pleasant, varied conversation, with Darcy asking many more questions of him than he asked of Darcy, an unusual reversal of roles. Following a few games at the billiards table and a warm dinner, they parted as if neither man had uttered anything as blasphemous as coveting the life of William Collins. Recalling that confession scared Bingley more than all the specters of Jane Bennet which he fancied he passed on his way back to the Hurst Residence, where he had been staying since he had once again forgotten to book rooms at his usual hotel.


	4. Chapter 4

Author Note:

This is such a short chapter that I have posted the next chapter as well. I think from now on I will post the 'other' gent's POV (always two chapters, and always together) on the same day. But for this time, you get Mr. Bennet and in the subsequent chapter back to Darcy.

Happy Reading, and thank you for the reviews.

Chapter Four

Thomas Bennet

Funny Girl

Bennet sat in his office, trying to read. He kept looking out the window and losing his place in his book. After glancing up and realizing the sound he had heard on the drive was one of the hounds chasing after a chicken, he shut his book and stood up. He rocked back on his heels, hands behind his back and hummed a melody he used to sing to the Jane and Elizabeth at bedtime, when he had still cradled a glimmer of hope for a happy family life. It was a simple lullaby passed down through the Bennet line, each generation adding its own flare to the song.

 _"_ _Come now and close your eyes._

 _Keep me close in your heart._

 _Sing a song and hum a tune._

 _And I'll come home to you."_

Bennet was not a sentimental man. He had never been a sentimental man, and this moment of nostalgia would not alter him in any material way. But even his satire and whimsy had grown brittle in his recent loneliness. In short, he missed his eldest daughters. They were as silly as other girls, but with something more of gentleness and wit than most other young women. He laughed at the sudden tears in his eyes, and before the sound of his laughter had faded, he saw the carriage trundling down the lane.

"Sense has returned to Longbourn," he said to the empty office.

He watched Lydia and Kitty tumble out of the carriage door first, the screams of their argument penetrating the panes of his window, watched Jane descend next, her elegant features rosy and reserved, in appearance the ideal blend of his mother's features and her mother's features. He wondered if she had managed to forget that Bingley fellow, or if she continued to harbor some affection for him. Bennet knew that either way, his Fanny would be sure to remind her eldest daughter about the loss of her beau. Lastly, Bennet watched his Lizzy jump lightly down from the carriage door, a wry smirk on her face. Maybe it was only his imagination, but he perceived some change in her, some maturing grace, some increase in wisdom. Or maybe his old age was making a sentimental fool of him after all. He chuckled at the thought, and humming his lullaby again, slowly walked out of his office.


	5. Chapter 5

Note: And here is the next chapter.

Chapter Five

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Marathon Man

It took only a single afternoon with Bingley for Darcy to come to two contradictory certainties about his closest friend: one, Bingley was remarkably resilient of heart, and two, he was still madly in love with Jane Bennet. Bingley blended his optimistic nature with his unsinkable cheer, somehow concocting the perfect confluence of traits to be happily brokenhearted. The duality baffled Darcy, even while he envied it. In the passing days since Elizabeth's refusal, he had only managed to be miserably brokenhearted.

Raw with spite and hurt, he spent most of his waking hours with Bingley It bolstered his mood, enough to be tolerable, and allowed him to keep watch over his friend's fragile well-being, but after only a week in London, he could no longer ignore the desire to return home to Derbyshire.

Pemberley beckoned to him as a sanctuary from the endless ache which filled his hours and lengthened his nights. None of the London attractions could distract or allure him with any staying power. They had failed him in the winter months and were failing him again. Bored and broken, he knew only one place on earth where he might truly restore his peace. To his good luck, Georgiana told him she would finish her studies a little earlier than planned, and within a fortnight of his return to town, he was able to expedite their departure for a summer in the country. Quickly he dispatched of all his London business, ending the final day in town with a call at the Hurst residence. He informed Bingley of his plan to spend the summer at Pemberley, allowing for the usual hunting trips he would take in the south, and invited Bingley to follow him to Pemberley in July to capture some of the fish and game up north. Hurst, his wife, and Caroline Bingley walked into the drawing room at that moment, having just returned from the theater, and Darcy was obliged to extend the invitation to the entire party.

Miss Bingley snapped up his dutiful offering, like carp to a worm. Sidling up to him, she thanked him for his generous hospitality, declaring how dearly she adored the woods at Pemberley (woods which Darcy suspected she had only ever explored in a covered chaise). She simpered and smirked at him for the remainder of his visit, and by the evening's end, had churned his stomach into a nauseous knot—not for the brashness or bizarreness of her flirtations, but because the revulsion he felt made him wonder if his sickening gut was how Elizabeth had experienced their interactions, only tenfold to his own with Miss Bingley. He knew his proposal had been disgusting to her, but had every conversation, every moment with him been a slog of gross endurance? Had she itched to bathe after speaking to him? When he had been longing to kiss her during their walks through Rosings park, had she been longing to purge her stomach and flee from him?

"Yes, of course!" logic answered for him. "You know it!" This epiphany, like all others where his relationship with Elizabeth were concerned, came to him with a dizzying clap of certainty. Suddenly he wanted to warn Miss Bingley not make as big a fool of herself as he had. Excusing himself from Bingley and his family as expeditiously as possible was all Darcy could do to stop himself from shaking Miss Bingley by the shoulders and begging her to show some restraint. Once safe in the cool of the spring night, he shook his head at his idiocy. Frankly, he did not know how much more self-awareness he could stomach.

He would cure this sickness, he vowed to himself. He must. Home was his first step to finding the remedy.

~0~

The trip back to Pemberley passed without remark, the countryside deepening in beauty and drama as Darcy and his sister traveled to their beloved estate. Darcy was grateful that his sister was his only traveling companion. Mrs. Annesley had taken a brief holiday with some family and would join them in a few weeks at Pemberley. He never had to feign interest around his sister or force himself into wandering conversations. Georgiana enjoyed her privacy too much to endlessly badger him with questions or commentary, and the scenic voyage was too worn over for novelty or exclamation.

Darcy embraced the rhythm of the road: the drumming of horse hooves, the jostle of wheels, the smell of blossoming trees. It was not quiet, but it was tranquil. He let the lulling sounds roll over him as a cleansing bath.

As long as he could remember, he had solved problems through careful contemplation. First introspection, and then execution. So it had always been—when his father had died, when his mother had died, when faced with a difficulty, he had retreated to his mind, looking inward for his answers and finding them through reason and reflection. A man of few words, he was used to keeping his thoughts to himself, but lately, his thoughts had been poor company.

Darcy looked at the sleeping Georgiana across from him and recalled the dark days of summer following his discovery of Wickham's plan to ensnare her, and suddenly longed for their return. The feelings which beset him now were of a darker hue. His anger at Elizabeth's unfounded accusations and her blind partiality to his enemy was slowly turning its pointy end towards himself. For the hundredth time, he found himself sorting through every syllable of his exchange with her on that fateful evening almost two weeks ago, and for the hundredth time, accepted that he had been the only one wanting. Perhaps her specific reproofs had been based on deceit and conjecture, but her general hostility had only been proven by his callous treatment of her.

"Apologize—grovel, if need be," his cousin had said, "come to your senses, and your manners." This harsh chastisement had been the first kick to force Darcy to reassess that evening, but the more Darcy had thought of what he had said to the woman he claimed to love, the more he doubted the efficacy of even sackcloth and ashes. For while his cousin's strictures and the recollection of his own words shamed him, the lady's words tormented him.

A month ago, there had been two things on which he would have gambled Pemberley: first, that he was a gentleman—in word, in deed, in character, and in conscience, and second, that he was a rather desirable husband. The former had been drilled into him by his mother and father, his uncles and aunts—even that once and lowly cook at Pemberley. In one scathing paragraph, Elizabeth had disabused him of that lifelong delusion. No amount of wealth or rank or even manners guaranteed the title of gentleman. It all hinged on character. Perhaps he had always believed this sentiment, Darcy supposed. If he had been pressed on it, he would have professed this egalitarian approach. Regardless, he had rarely lived it. He was like a religious man who could quote holy scripture but could not be bothered to adhere to holy teachings. The hardening certainty of his hypocrisy was not an easy dreg to swallow, and for the first time in his twenty-seven years, looking back on his life became an uncomfortable endeavor.

As for the other marriage matter, it struck Darcy as the cruelest ironies that the first single young woman whom he had tried to marry, was the first single young woman who had not thrown herself at him. He had always scorned those young women who chased after him, and to his shock, now felt a begrudging camaraderie with their desperation. Despite all his suffering, he liked Elizabeth better for her independence. This increase in admiration was as salt to his wounded heart, unfortunately.

The carriage curved around the bend in the drive which led to Pemberley, and there on the hilltop towered his home, sprawling and majestic, a dusty rose sunset shimmering behind its elegant shape. Wryly, he mused that had Elizabeth's mother seen this view, she would have never allowed her daughter to refuse another proposal of marriage. Immediately Darcy frowned, he was in a miserable state of mind indeed if he were wishing for the support of Mrs. Bennet.

"Welcome home," he whispered at the window.

"Welcome home, brother," Georgiana softly replied, catching him by surprise. He looked at her and wondered how long she had been watching him before her lovely face had twisted into that canvas of concern. He would need to practice more caution.

"It is never home when you are away, dear Georgie," he said with a false enthusiasm. She smiled and glanced out the window, distracted by the comforting sight of Pemberley. He sighed, his relief as true as the peaks which shaded his horizon and thought how good it was to be home.

~0~

The sleepy, warm days of spring slid into early summer, the time since his departure from Rosings slithering behind him with a nagging constancy of regret. Darcy searched for comfort in the trails and tasks of Pemberley. He found some of the peace he lacked in those familiar groves and embraced the distraction which the demands of his estate granted. But it was a hollow reprieve.

It had been weeks since he had experienced a rush of fury at his circumstances, or shock at the turning of his opinion about Elizabeth's reasons for rejecting him. Those bright-red marks across his heart had darkened into thick scabs, no longer tender to the touch, but wholly unfaded. It was as if time had clarified the injury, not healed it. Most days, it was as if he were living someone else's life. He would stop and stare at his reflection in a mirror, and hardly recognize the man who looked back at him. He was not an angry man, nor a lost man. No, the man who stared back at him was a wounded man.

He tried to forge ahead, to put the past squarely at his back. He was a young man. There were other young women of wit and wisdom—somewhere, outside of Pemberley. But at the faintest thought of pursuing other women, his heart revolted. He had tried to forget her before, and his effort had ended in a proposal. And so he waited, pretending that all was right and busying himself with life, such as it was.

Darcy knew something was amiss in his behavior, enough that his sister had noticed, when with a strained smile Georgiana approached him and declared that she was throwing him a birthday celebration.

"I think you are mistaking me for the Prince Regent," he replied, setting aside some letters.

"I could never mistake you for anyone other than the most wonderful older brother, and for that reason, I want to celebrate you"

"Twenty-eight is not a particularly festive number."

"You are reluctant?"

"I am intrigued," he hedged. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well," she bit her lip, "my harp tutor is German, and you know, they do the funniest things on birthdays there. They put candles on cake to scare away bad spirits, and all sorts of other silly things."

"You want to ruin a perfectly good cake by sticking a candle in it?"

"No, not really. I only thought it would be pleasant to celebrate you in some fashion. We have been home now for over a month and since the first week back, we haven't seen anyone outside of our family circle. I thought we might have an intimate little gathering with friends. I imagine no one in our neighborhood would object to some cake." She smiled at him again, adding: "Unless you really would rather not celebrate."

Darcy very much did not want to celebrate, but he did not wish to dampen his sister's delight in planning a party. He had not realized she had felt lonely for some company. Mrs. Annesley had joined them at Pemberley a couple weeks ago, and since then, he had not felt obligated to entertain or really converse. He talked with his steward, he chatted with his tenants, he paid compliments to his sister, and voiced gratitude to his staff—and each word uttered was a dismal chore. A night of celebration would be the worst kind of social obligation. Perhaps he could switch places with the stable hand and clean the horse droppings from the stalls. If only his sister did not stand before him, that sweet, hopeful look upon her face. He would not disappoint her. Not even for his peace of mind.

"Very well, Georgie. Tell Mrs. Reynolds to have some white soup made up, but please keep the invitations to a minimum."

"I will limit them to Timberook, Harleton House, and Castaly," she said, and with a giddy squeak, skipped away, calling for the housekeeper.

Darcy shook his head, his mouth somewhere between a smile and a frown. Georgiana was so easily pleased. The innocent were always so easily pleased. If only he could take such pleasure in the small things, he might then shake this shadow from his side.

He glanced down at the letters he had been reading and thought of the letter he could not forget, and the woman for whom it had been written. Had that letter done enough? Had it done anything? He recalled those first lines and cringed at his language. At the time, he had believed himself command of his emotions, but he knew now that he had been no more a master of his feelings that morning than he had been a suitor to Elizabeth the night before.

"Not this afternoon," he reminded himself. If he was not vigilant, he would waste entire days in self-reproach.

Darcy picked up the letters on the desk which still required his attention, business affairs and a correspondence about an upcoming hunt. He read the date on the top of one of them; it had been penned exactly one month before his birthday. "A birthday celebration," he sighed, and in spite of himself, hoped that his twenty-eighth year would prove far more pleasant than his twenty-seventh had been. At the very least, he hoped his sister would not force him to eat a candlelit cake.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note:

 _So this is the first chapter really where I realize that if you have not read the first volume of this story, you may need some context. I have a couple new characters who show up in this chapter below who are in the first volume. The first is a Mr. Burrows, who first makes an appearance in the prologue as a young child who lives as a tenant farmer near Pemberley (the prologue to the first book is on my sophieraewrites facebook page and of course, the entirety of the book is on Amazon), and then who later appears as an actor on the London stage, where Darcy happens to briefly cross paths with him after attending a play._

 _Also in this chapter is a neighbor of Darcy's named George Harvey. He has quite a few appearances in the first book. He is a friend and equal to Darcy, and when he appears in this story, he is in the midst of having a very public feud with his wife._

 _This is the first appearance of the other OCs._

 _I hope you enjoy, and thanks for the reviews. I try to answer questions via PMs. But this was one of my favorite chapters to write._

 _(I updated the chapter, because I did not end up liking the dinner invite to Mr. Burrows either. So thanks for the reviews. They really do help me. The rest of the chapter is the same, especially Darcy's convo with Georgiana. I just had Darcy make a different kind of kind gesture to the guy.)_

The sun shone with a golden haze and the gravel crunched pleasantly beneath the horse's hooves as Darcy rode into Lambton for a quick errand. It was the morning of his birthday and he knew that he could not hide out in one of the public houses, despite his pull to avoid the festivities which his sister was planning. He picked up the package of books which had been the cause for his trip into the small market town—a compendium of encyclopedias which he had gifted to himself for his birthday. He was on the point of mounting his horse when the flash of bright red caught his eye. He turned to his right and was surprised to see Jack Burrows strolling down the Lambton sidewalk. The flamboyantly-clad actor noticed his stare and stopped short, throwing his hand on his chest and bowing with all the flare of a drunk clown.

"Mr. Darcy!" the man cried. "I feel as if I have been blessed by the angels. This is now twice I have crossed paths with you in six months."

"Good day, Mr. Burrows," Darcy said.

"It is not a good day, Mr. Darcy. It is a great day because I have seen a gentleman such as yourself."

Darcy wanted to roll his eyes, but the word gentleman was a sore spot for him these days, and he held back. The pause was enough to force Darcy to reconsider his critique of the man. Who was he, after all, to stand in judgement of this jolly, albeit flowery man? What did it matter to Darcy that he dressed as a mad-capped satin hoarder—today a special combination of greys and blacks? The man seemed very pleased with his lot in life, very pleased to share any sort of relationship with Darcy and, Darcy recalled with a silent pang, was a happily married man. Suddenly the master of Pemberley envied the fop.

"How is Mrs. Burrows?" Darcy asked on a whim. "Did she come up north with you or do you travel for work?"

That toothy grin on the actor's face faltered, and Darcy, after a pause asked if something was the matter.

"That is very kind of you, Mr. Darcy, to ask after my kin and me. Fear not, Mrs. Burrows does remarkably well and is in the inn over there. No, it is only that, well, my father has passed, you see, and his last request was that we bury him in his home county. We laid him to rest yesterday."

Darcy had begun to feel some regret for his lapse in reserve, but that regret was mixed with a fair amount of compassion. He knew only too well the pain of losing a father. The sound of his father's coffin dropping into the ground was not one which he would ever forget. A strange impulse to extend the man his hand and offer him a brotherly pat on the shoulder struck Darcy. He wanted to do something for the former tenant's son, his impulse even driving him to consider inviting the man and his wife over for dinner, some gesture that was more than mere show.

"Is there anything that I might do for you, Mr. Burrows? Do you and your wife have a place to dine tonight?"

"You are grace itself, Mr. Darcy," the man cooed. "We are hosting a small dinner at the inn for the few who remain in the county who remember my father."

"That sounds lovely," Darcy replied, a touch pleased with himself for not squashing the urge to invite the lowly thespian to his table, and relieved that he did not need to extend the invitation. With another subtle sigh, he realized, too, that inviting the man over to celebrate while he mourned the loss of his father would have been poor taste indeed.

"Where did you say you laid your father to rest?" he asked, a different idea forming.

"In the old graveyard, beside my mother and twin brothers."

Darcy nodded. He had not realized Burrows had lost two siblings as well as his mother as a child.

"It is difficult to make out the inscriptions of their headstones, so many years after their burial," Mr. Burrows added, speaking almost to himself. "Father's headstone will go the same way, I suppose."

Darcy had figured as much. The old graveyard behind the parsonage was where most of the farmers and tenants buried their dead. The headstones consisted of odd-shaped boulders and haphazard shards of fallen rock. The misshapen markers gave the illusion of disorder and decay, despite the care of the lawn. It had always made Darcy a little sad to pass beside the graveyard. Jack Burrows flashed Darcy a sad, little smile, and the master of Pemberley instantly made-up his mind.

"If you do not object," he said, "I am planning on commissioning a mason and replacing the headstones for all of the grave markers in the old cemetery. Do you think this is something which would bother some of the tenants? I do not mean to be presumptuous."

Mr. Burrows stared at Darcy, eyes blinking and mouth agape, before recovering from the shock. "That would be very generous of you, sir. To own the truth, it is as if you were seeing through my skin and staring straight at my heart. I was in the very midst of bemoaning my relative poverty which precluded me from laying a proper headstone above my dear father's body."

Darcy felt something, which took him a moment to name as it had been a good while since he had felt this way—peace.

"Consider it done," he told the man.

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I cannot tell you what this means to me."

He stuck out his hand. Darcy looked at the dirty palm, the black fingernails and red knuckles. He had dug his own father's grave; his hands told the sad story. "And I was concerned by the mere sound of my father's coffin being lowered into his grave," he thought. He shrugged infinitesimally and shook the man's hand.

Darcy bowed, mounting his horse in one fluid motion. He was eager to depart or garner any more of Mr. Burrows' gratitude. Mr. Burrows continued to express his awe and admiration for the Darcy family as Darcy clicked to his horse and galloped away.

When he reached the house, he was more settled by the idea. He did not really know Mr. Burrows at all, but if nothing else, Darcy comforted himself, there would be something good to come of his random interaction with the fellow.

~0~

Georgiana stayed true to her word and invited only the residents of Timberook, Harleton House, and Castaly to her celebration. Castaly was home to the Marnets, an elderly couple whose son fettered away their fortune in town. They arrived early to the fete, and departed early, fearful of the grey clouds which scudded overhead a few moments after their arrival. Harleton House had been the residence to Misses Mariah and Agatha Barnley since before Darcy had been born. The two spinster sisters were always good company, or at least very talkative company, as energetic today as they had been as young girls—and with appetites to match. With the Marnets' short departure, that left the Barnley sisters, Harvey and his wife, and Darcy's small family circle to dine and indulge in some peculiar German sweets, which Georgiana had deemed necessary. Thankfully she spared her brother the humiliation of placing candles on his cake.

When the ladies departed to the drawing room, Harvey and Darcy remained behind to enjoy a drink. His neighbor and he talked about the season, the sport, and the current style of cravat popular in London, both men skirting around less superficial subjects, other than an aside Harvey made about the increased appetite and waist size of his wife. Darcy sipped his drink in reply. He had no wish to delve into the topic of Harvey's complicated marriage. Over diner, he had noted that a hint of courtesy had been restored to the couple, that rancor from months ago settling into cool politeness, and was grateful for the change. He knew he could not have endured the bickering which he had witnessed the last time he had visited Timberook.

"Mrs. Annesley seems to have worked out splendidly for Miss Darcy," Harvey said, clearly searching for something to say.

"She has been an ideal companion," Darcy said. "I should thank Miss Amelia for giving her up when she returns from the seaside."

Harvey laughed. "Ah, yes, the seaside. Well, I daresay, she will not return from the seaside before the summer's end."

"Her name's Potter—"

"Porter. She married Mr. Porter, a bigger fool than even me."

Darcy ignored the domestic allusion. "And how is your brother-in-law? I had thought Mr. Beverly would be here with you."

"Beverly prefers town. I cannot blame him. If I were not bound to home, I would go there also." Harvey paused. "He is an idiot, but I envy him. He understands himself."

"I cannot imagine it is difficult to understand an idiot, even if that someone is an idiot."

Harvey laughed. "I like the man. Do not get me wrong. I was only mentioning him as philosophical fodder."

"I am glad to hear it."

Harvey stared at his cup for a moment. "It is impossible to be true to oneself, if one does not know oneself."

"That is a hard lesson to learn."

"It is a harder lesson to learn if you think you have already learned it."

"Or if you must learn it again," Darcy offered.

"Better men than I am understand that they must always learn again." Harvey took a drink. "I always thought I would be that better man."

"There is still time. Better men are better because they are not only willing to learn, but they are willing to change."

"Those are not better men, Darcy. Those are the best men." He took another drink and quietly laughed. "The Barnley sisters knew it—get fat and gossip with your sister all your days and be happy."

The conversation once again halted into a heavy silence. Darcy perceived that Harvey was putting up a brave front to keep things light but was struggling to maintain the effort as the minutes slinked by. Battling back his own clouds from his mood, he suggested they make their way to the drawing room. Harvey quickly agreed and followed Darcy quietly into the hall to join the ladies and the actor.

They entered the drawing room, and Harvey walked straight to the opposite side of the room from where his wife sat, settling into a chair beside the fire—the least comfortable corner of the room—and picked up a book from off a table. Darcy noted that the spine of the book was upside-down, but merely pursed his lips. Married life had not suited his friend. For the second time in a day, he felt pity for someone other than himself. It was a welcome sensation. The surge of compassion cleansed his spirit, like a refreshing bite of fruit washes over the palate. Darcy sensed the feeling would not long endure, the bitterness within too potent, but he relished the fleeting emotion while it lasted.

He weaved his way toward Mrs. Annesley, Mrs. Harvey, and the Barnley sisters, who chatted merrily in the center of the room, but stopped short of sitting down with them when he noticed that Georgiana was not in the room. He stood behind the couch in silence, dreading what occult, continental birthday tradition she was probably preparing for him. After several minutes, she failed to reappear, and he decided he should look for her and discover what mishap had befallen her. If luck was on his side, she had somehow ruined the horrible surprise he assumed was the reason for her conspicuous absence.

He quickly excused himself, his retreat hardly noticed by his guests, and searched for his sister in all the obvious places. When those failed to produce her, he began to look in all the unobvious places. At length, Darcy found her in the upstairs parlor, a room which usually remained empty. The grate was hardly ever lit, and the large windows which framed the small room made it drafty in the winter months and wretched in the summertime. He had only peeked in here on a whim.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked, walking into the room. "Is hide and seek another German birthday tradition?"

She startled and turned towards him, a pucker on her brow. "I am sorry, William. I have made a mess of your birthday."

"Not at all. It has been very memorable."

"Bad things are often more memorable than good things," she replied.

"Leave the cynicism to me. It does not suit you. You are much too pretty for that kind of frown." He winked to soften his teasing. "Would you not prefer to be downstairs with our guests?"

"Am I being rude by coming up here?" 

"You are not rude, only missed."

She shrugged, dancing her fingers across the windowsill as she walked. "I should not have planned any of this. If you are happy, then I am happy, but I must confess that the undertaking has proved more taxing than I had imagined. Sometimes I like to hide away, and I fear people misunderstand me. It is not that I dislike them. I just do not know how to be myself around most people, not even our neighbors whom I have known all my life."

"I know," Darcy said with a small smile. "We are not so dissimilar, Georgie."

She smiled at him, a laugh on her lips and cast her gaze about the room. "I have always enjoyed this room. It is so naturally cheerful and inviting. It only lacks a bit of color and cloth."

Darcy surveyed the room with fresh eyes, determining to decorate it with his sister as his muse. Perhaps he would purchase her a new piano. He wanted her to have a refuge, a place where she could be herself. He looked back at Georgiana, and caught her in a quiet moment of reflection, that familiar sadness in her expression. Mrs. Annesley was a wonderful companion, but Georgiana needed a true confidant—a mother, or an older sister, a female relative who possessed an openness of heart and a levity of mind. They hardly ever spoke of their parents, that old wound still tender. But they need not fear the dark. They needed to add the light, his sister especially.

"I should have liked to introduce you to Elizabeth Bennet," he said, without thinking.

Georgiana stared at him, her mouth slightly open. He wondered why she wore that bright look upon her face.

"What is it?" he asked.

"You wrote about her before, I think," she replied. "Elizabeth Bennet is the woman whom you described as being like both father and mother. You did not name her, but you said you wished to introduce me to her. It was in a letter you wrote while staying at the house Bingley let over the fall."

Darcy raised his eyebrows. "I am impressed by your memory, Georgie."

"It was an impressive recommendation. Singular, in fact. You have never written that about another woman before, or since."

"I suppose I have not."

Georgiana grinned. "Will I be introduced to her? Might I know her? I cannot think of a higher compliment on her behalf than to hear you twice recommend her to me."

Darcy wanted to close off, to keep his pride, but he wanted more to be a better a man. What Harvey had said was true. Until Elizabeth had ripped open his faults, he had not really known himself. And he had been hiding from the ugliness about his character which she had exposed. He had been hiding, and mourning. What kind of man was he? Could he change? He could not have her love, but with effort, he could have her respect.

Darcy did not realize that in this silent admission of his own failings, he was already revealing his ability to adapt and his willingness to change. He could not see the transformation which had been slowly occurring, widening the caverns of his heart, but the shape of his character had been shifting since the moment Elizabeth had refused him. The impact of that rejection had broken him, and he alone was the artist who could put the pieces back together and create something new. What better day to truly be born again than on his birthday?

"I do not know if I will ever have the privilege of introducing you to her," he admitted. "I am not a favored acquaintance of hers."

Georgiana's confusion saddened him. He wished he could have offered his tender sister a better truth.

"Why is she at odds with you?" she asked.

"I said some very unkind things to her, and we did not part on amicable terms."

"I do not believe it." Georgiana shook her head. "You are the kindest person I know. I have never heard a harsh word from you in all my life. This cannot be so, William"

Darcy laughed at her sweet prejudice. "Sadly, it is so. I am not infallible, far from it. I said terrible things to her. Her dislike of me is justly founded."

"Well then unsay them." The scowl on her face cut across her forehead in the same lines as their mother's scowl had. "Apologize. Set things right."

"If it were only so simple, Georgie."

"It is this simple." She folded her arms, aghast. "You would never permit me to lose a friendship over something as trifling as heated words. We could go to her this summer. Mr. Bingley still lets that house that you stayed in during the fall, does he not?"

Darcy hesitated. "Yes, but there are other obstacles besides those that I mentioned."

"Other obstacles? Of what sort?"

"Of the Mr. Wickham kind, for one."

Georgiana took a step back. "Mr. Wickham is there? At Mr. Bingley's house?"

"No, he is not at _Netherfield_. He is quartered near there. He joined the militia and his regiment is residing in Meryton."

"Miss Bennet knows him then?"

"Yes, as does her family. He called on them regularly."

"Oh." Georgiana looked away for a moment. Darcy watched her, frowning. He had not intended on telling her that much information, but he had thought it would be simpler to enlighten her on Wickham's current residence than to delve into all the other complications connected to a potential return to Hertfordshire.

"Are you well, Georgiana? I would not wish that man to dampen your good spirits."

"I am well," she assured him, straightening her shoulders, an elegant gesture of resolve. "And I will be far better when I finally make Miss Bennet's acquaintance. Please, make peace with her. For my sake."

Darcy inhaled, easing the familiar pain. "I shall try, Georgiana, for your sake, I shall try."

His sister beamed at him, and he could not help but return the grin, little though he felt like smiling. This conversation had been the first time he had been able to discuss Elizabeth without that sharp stitch in his chest.

"Come," he said, waving for her to follow him, "our guests are sure to miss both their hosts by now. Rest assured, they have missed you much more."

Georgiana bowed her head and walked by him, that sad curve in the shape of her shoulders. Perhaps Darcy could devise a visit Hertfordshire in the fall. They would be closer to London in another week and reunite with Bingley at a hunting party. Perhaps he could persuade Bingley to return to Netherfield, once the dust of summer had settled, once the cool of autumn had returned. Perhaps by then he could be a man whom Elizabeth could tolerate.

As they headed down the stairs, he laughed with his sister about the German dessert and confessed to her that he had worried another surprise had lurked in his future. She flashed a guilty expression, but he did not have time to press her on its meaning before they reentered the drawing room. His gaze was still set on Georgiana as the door swung shut behind them, and he watched her face light up with unexpected joy. "There are my cousins!" he heard, and turning his head, Darcy saw Fitzwilliam standing in the center of the room, the disarray of recent travel evident in his appearance.

"Surprise," Georgiana whispered in her brother's ear before she hurried over to hug her other guardian. Darcy smiled and made his way toward Georgiana and Fitzwilliam. His other guests laughed and cooed at the sight of the family reunion, Harvey calling for some festive music to match the mood.

Fitzwilliam looked at Darcy over the top of Georgiana's head, a serious gleam in his eye, and asked, "How are you Darcy?"

"Better," he replied. And as a final birthday surprise, he meant it.


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: (I updated the previous chapter a bit, because I did not end up liking the dinner invite to Mr. Burrows either. I liked the idea of a fellow from Darcy's past acting as a catapult to change his behavior, in a real way, and so I changed what Darcy did for him, not his presence. He shows up again in this chapter. So thanks for the reviews. They really do help me. The rest of the last chapter is the same, especially Darcy's convo with Georgiana. I enjoy writing Darcy and Georgiana scenes.)_

 _This chapter is more of an evolution of Darcy's way of seeing the world._

Chapter Seven

Some Kind of Beautiful

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Colonel Fitzwilliam remained at Pemberley for the following week, adding calm, conversation, and an intelligent charm to Pemberley ( _his_ words, not Darcy's). Georgiana delighted in the rare company of _both_ her guardians watching over her. As ever, despite Fitzwilliam's penchant for needling him, Darcy enjoyed the rejuvenating effect the colonel's easy, jocular ways had over him. The cousins passed the warm, late June days soaking in the luxuries of good hunting, good riding, and excellent angling; the nights slipped by with tender performances from Georgiana and debates about everything from politics to playhouses.

On the colonel's final day at Pemberley, the two gentlemen were returning from a fishing trip beside the lake when the colonel pointed out to Darcy a shocking red tuft of hair. Darcy informed the colonel that the owner of the ghastly hair was one Mr. Jack Burrows. With a mild frown, he wondered about the reason for the actor's appearance, knowing that he had discussed his plan of commissioning new headstones with his steward only yesterday. And he had never intended on his act of kindess to beholden Mr. Burrows or anyone else to him. Fitzwilliam and he approached the man and saluted him, startling the actor, who had been staring off in the opposite direction.

"My apologies!" the man exclaimed, removing his hat and wrinkling it in his hands. "I did not mean to trespass or interrupt your solitude. I was making my way to the house, for an appointment with your housekeeper, Mr. Darcy, when I was distracted by the fair as it is feathery sight of a meadow which me and my lady danced in while children."

Darcy trailed his gaze to the meadow which winked at them in the sunshine, below the path and beyond a smattering of trees. He noticed the massive, knotted trunk of a tree beside the brook which meandered through the thin grove, outlining the meadow's entrance with a sparkling rivulet, and could not help but smile at the sight of his former favorite spot in all of Pemberley.

"I remember that meadow, as well, Mr. Burrows. I watched you and the young girl who would become your wife play there one day."

"I remember that too, sir. It is one of my and Mrs. Burrows' most treasured memories. to have my name called by your beautiful other—it was a gift which warms me still." The man shook his head, twisting his hat a few more times. "You must pardon my impertinence. I am keeping you, and likely making Mrs. Reynolds await me."

"Not at all," Darcy assured. "We were just returning to the house for the afternoon. Might I be of assistance? Perhaps I can spare my housekeeper a task or two today."

"How magnanimous," Mr. Burrows murmured his eyes pinging in several directions. It was clear from the nervousness of the man that he had come with some particular thing in mind. His eyes darted repeatedly to the colonel, who picked up on the man's hesitancy. Fitzwilliam smiled and excused himself, leaving Darcy alone with Mr. Burrows.

"I do not mean to be intrusive or overstep my boundaries, but I must admit that I have nowhere else to turn, my good sir."

"I shall help any way that I may," Darcy said, setting his rod and bucket against a nearby tree.

"My wife begged me not to come, but I told her, see I told her that the finest master of Pemberley—"

"My father was the finest master of Pemberley, Mr. Burrows. You do not need to flatter me to win my affection. You have expended the effort to come here. Please tell me what is on your mind."

Mr. Burrows smiled and destroyed his hat with some more wringing. "Thank you, that doth bolster my heart in seven different pockets, Mr. Darcy."

"Go on, Mr. Burrows."

"It is just that my missus, well, my missus has enjoyed this country air so much. The London air does not do her good, Mr. Darcy. It is a terrible thing for her health, to be sure. I am bound by contract to finish out the year on the stage, but I was hoping, well, you see, I was wanting to ask if my wife might find some form of employment at your house. She is very good with a thread and needle—and even better with a spoon and pot. I swear to you, she can cook as fine as any French chef that ever there was on this blessed land. She can be ready as early as tomorrow at dawn."

Darcy, expecting something much grander and more difficult than a job at Pemberley, sighed in relief. "I am certain we can find something for her to do. And when your contract is done, I would be only to happy to arrange some lessons or tutoring opportunities for you."

"I would be much obliged, Mr. Darcy."

Mr. Burrows stamped his mangled hat back on his head. "If I may be so bold," he hesitated, "you are a kind friend, Mr. Darcy. There is not any other way to term it. You are a kind friend first, and a fine gentleman to boot."

Darcy merely bowed his head, assuring Mr. Burrows that he would inform his housekeeper to expect Mrs. Burrows tomorrow morning. With that, the actor spun on his heel, a distinct bounce to his step. Darcy watched him go for a moment, before picking up his pole and bucket and slowly walking up to the house.

"Friend," he muttered to himself. "Now that is a novelty." He wondered what his aunt might say about him fraternizing with the rough, would-be genteel man, what his father might say. He really did not care what the lady of Rosings had to say about it. He only cared what the lady who yet lingered in his heart and lived at Longbourn might say about this exchange. He had an inkling that she would approve of his kindness.

~0~

Colonel Fitzwilliam took leave of Pemberley the day before Darcy was scheduled to depart for the south for a house party. As a none-too-surprising twist, the colonel took Georgiana with him. His sister had expressed her desire to see Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam, rather than a house full of strangers, and as his brother's estate was his next stopover, the colonel volunteered to bring Georgiana with him. The plan worked out well for Darcy, who had already intended on traveling through London after the house party and would meet his cousin and sister en route to town.

Before embarking on his trip, Darcy paid a few visits to his neighbors before leaving the county, remembering for the first time in over a year to include the Barnley sisters in his calls. He had noted how their hands were shaking as brittle leaves in a breeze, that sign of age which often overcomes the hoary headed person, during his birthday celebration and wanted to renew the friendship. He would not become derelict in caring for his elderly spinster neighbors. How well he remembered their kindness to his father after his mother's passing. He mentioned this to them, and they waved away his gratitude with a hoot and a wink.

"Tis nothing, Darcy," Miss Mariah Barnley, the slightly older and slightly fatter sister said.

"Nothing at all," her sister Miss Agatha repeated. "We well remember the kindness your mother showed us, and the sage advice and helping hand your father lent us as we adjusted to ruling the roost after our dear papa's passing."

Miss Barnley nodded, wiping an elusive tear from her eye. "Dear, dear papa."

"Do not hesitate to rely on me. I feel as if I have been a neglectful neighbor of late."

"Nonsense," the sisters exclaimed in unison, then turning to each other, laughed at their impromptu chorus.

"You have been busy, Darcy," Miss Barnley said.

"Very busy," Miss Agatha agreed.

"Nevertheless, I can make more time to visit friends."

"What you need is some help, Darcy," Miss Agatha said.

"More specifically, a helpmeet," Miss Barnley added.

"Oh, how clever, Mariah," her sister giggled.

"How clever and true," she replied, with a laugh of her own and another wink at Darcy.

"Yes, well," Darcy said. He was remembering why he had allowed his visits to these two women fall to the wayside. They had a way of making a caller dizzy, with their dual voices ever braiding together and the one sister inevitably parroting the other. He smiled down the grimace which nearly overran his expression and stood to leave.

"I shall call on you when I am returned home," he said.

"And we shall pray that you will not return unless you can introduce us to the next Mrs. Darcy."

Darcy merely bowed to this, and exited the house.

He paid a few more visits around the neighborhood, a quick chat with Harvey and his wife—who were actually talking directly to each other for the entire visit—and a short conversation with the Marnets, to make sure that they had made it home from Pemberley the other night before the rain had come. The husband and wife assured him that they had indeed—though not before the chill of damp had threatened to give them a cold. The final visit he made was to his own kitchens, where he wanted to peek in on the new cook and ask how she was faring at Pemberley. Mrs. Burrows wiped the flour from her eyes and rubbed her hands on her apron, a blush overwhelming her cheeks. She thanked him for the job and asked if there was anything she might bake for him. He told her he had no complaints and only the warmest compliments for what he had tasted thus far.

"I might have heard that you enjoy a good ham pie, sir," Mrs. Burrows mentioned as he exited the kitchens—to the obvious relief of all the downstairs. It was novel enough that he would chat so conversationally with a cook; it was positively shocking that the master of the house would become a visitor to the kitchens.

Darcy paused his departure at the mention of the ham, curious now.

"Who told you I enjoyed ham, Mrs. Burrows?"

"Everyone, sir," the lady replied. "They say you have loved it since you were a little boy and ate an entire ham by yourself."

Darcy digested this information, twirling his thumbs behind his back. So the story of the ham had become a legend.

"Are the rumors wrong, sir? You do not like ham?"

Darcy smirked. "No, no I enjoy a well-cooked ham as much as any other man. I am just wondering something, Mrs. Burrows."

"Something I can help you with, Mr. Darcy?"

Darcy laughed and shook his head. "No, Mrs. Burrows. No one can help with this. There is no way to tell how a story will end, or certainly how it will be told years after it has been lived."

"Is that a good thing?"

"I do not know." Darcy thought of his own life's story. "But I am hopeful that our histories can be re-written."

With that, he left a perplexed Mrs. Burrows to scratch her brow. He jogged up the stairs, dusting the flour from his clothes. He may not be able to change what had happened these last six months, but for the first time in a long time, Darcy began to believe that he was rewriting the story of who he was. His final act before he departed for the south was to arrange for that room to be made up to his sister's liking, and to order the piano for her enjoyment. With a sigh, he wished he could shower as much affection on a different young woman who played the piano.


	8. Chapter 8

_Note: Thanks for the reviews. I bulked up the bits with Burrows and clarified a few things. I'll update the chapters soon. I love reading your insights. Thanks, Merytonmiss for your lengthy and perceptive reviews, and all the rest as well. Have a happy weekend. My hope is to finish the chapter for my other short story by the weekend's end. :) I'll post again on this story tomorrow-because, well, it's the chapter you've all been so patient for! (But since this is a different guy's POV, there are two chapters posted today). Cheers!_

Chapter Eight

Bye, Bye Birdie

George Wickham

Wickham watched Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She really was rather pretty, prettier on closer acquaintance than on first impression. Perhaps it was her delectable voice, or perhaps it was her throaty laugh, but whatever the allure, he was glad she had received the renewal of his attention these past weeks with so much cheer. It was a travesty, to him, that she had no dowry. "More's the pity," he thought as he walked up beside her at the tea cart.

Some fellow officers and he were dining at Longbourn on their final night in Meryton. He did not regret the farewell location—there were few establishments in town where he was welcome, and even fewer where he did not owe a large debt for which the shopkeepers were hounding him to pay. As if he could spare a shilling on some storeowner when he had honor debts hanging over his head?

"More's the pity," he thought again, smiling warmly at Miss Elizabeth as he bit into a cake. In the mood to burn some frustration, he believed he could vent about that fiend Darcy and that idiot Collins while enjoying her lovely voice.

"How was your stay at Hunsford, dear Miss Eliza? I do not believe you have shared with me how you passed your time."

She did not immediately reply, and Wickham fancied that his pointed interest in her had overwhelmed her heart. He happily waited for her to collect herself.

"Hunsford was delightful," she replied.

"The cottage, you mean. I dare hope you do not mean the company," he chuckled.

"The company was delightful, as well—perhaps not the same as my friends in Hertfordshire, but I had the good fortune to make new friends. Are you familiar with Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam? He came down to visit his aunt, along with Mr. Darcy."

Wickham could not hear the name Colonel Fitzwilliam without remembering the threat the man had made in the letter which Darcy and he had sent last summer. Wickham now stood on shaky ground. He knew he could not disguise his own perfidy as injury if the colonel had seconded whatever truths Darcy might have shared. Did Miss Eliza know of his deceit? Wickham swallowed hard at the thought, and another big bite of cake, but shoving his worry away, smiled. He needed to know how well she knew the colonel—and the colonel's cousin, for that matter. He asked her a series of questions: how long Darcy and he had stayed at Rosings, how often she had seen the colonel, and what she had thought of the two cousins.

With each response, Wickham's stomach twisted. He realized too late that she was the one in command of the conversation. He did not like it. He did not like her, he discovered. He finished his interrogation, finished his cake, and finished with her. He moved to the opposite corner of the room, grinning with little grace and struck up a dialogue with Denny. Wickham glanced back over at Miss Eliza and corrected his earlier appraisal. She really was rather uglier on closer acquaintance.

"More's the pity," he mused and, smiling at his own cruelty, winked at her youngest sister. Miss Lydia batted her lashes at him with wanton absurdity. With mild indifference, he remembered that Miss Lydia would be tailing along after his regiment on their transfer to Brighton. Less pretty than Miss Jane Bennet, less enchanting than Miss Eliza, she was at least—thankfully—less of a bore, too.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

The Rites of Spring

Charles Bingley

Bingley could not name the time of day, or recall the hour, but he realized that the gloom which had hovered over him for all of winter had finally dispersed. Perhaps it was the warmth of the sun, or the sweetness of the berries, but summer had returned that jolliness to his soul which he had lacked since fall. He accepted the gift, even if he could not say from whence it had come.

He had not forgotten Jane Bennet. He could no more forsake the memory of her than he could abandon the teachings of his father. She would remain, for the entirety of his life, the ideal of grace and beauty and cheer. Her cheerfulness, hidden behind the reserve, was something few might suspect about her, he supposed. He cherished this truth about her, keeping it close to his heart. It was his own secret to warm him, like an unseen love letter from her to him.

Bingley spent these halcyon weeks of summer riding his horse, chasing after foxes, bouncing around from house to house and hunt to hunt. He thrived off the energy of a crowd, enthused by the joy of the spectators and thrilled by the rush of a sprint. He loved the sociality of the summer months. There was always some person to see, some place to be, some party to enjoy. It was no wonder he had returned to himself, wistful though his dreams may tend during the sticky nights of late June.

In recent summers, he had passed his time with Darcy, and when July rolled in, he smiled at the opportunity to see his friend once more. Life was more interesting with Darcy as his sporting companion; he always pushed Bingley to strive harder. Amiable as he was, Bingley loved real competition. "Play hard," his father had always taught. "And laugh harder," his son had taken to adding.

Bingley first spied Darcy in the gardens at the house party they were both attending. Bingley had arrived a day earlier and was coming into the manor following a misty morning of shooting and to his surprise, discovered his friend conversing with one of the estate's undergardeners. He swung his musket onto his shoulder and halted.

"Thank ye, kindly, sir. I shall let the head gardener know of your suggestion," Bingley heard the undergardener say before the man bowed to Darcy and walked away, nodding at Bingley as he passed.

"What is this, Darcy?" Bingley asked, patting his friend on the back in happy salutation. "Are you telling the man how to improve upon his job? You do not have enough of that to do at Pemberley?"

"I overheard him as I came up the lane. There is a climbing rose giving him trouble. I offered some advice. I am not an expert, but my aunt does have a very extensive rose garden, and I have dallied in pruning it for her here and there."

Bingley blinked in surprise. In all the years he had known Darcy, he had never seen his friend willingly strike up a conversation with a servant. He had certainly never witnessed him offer unsolicited advice. "You are a man of rare talent," Bingley said at last.

"Am I?" Darcy replied.

"To be sure, a man of rare and hidden talents."

Darcy looked at Bingley with that scrutinizing gaze, the one which always made Bingley feel like a schoolboy. His expression softened, and he asked Bingley how he fared.

"I am well," Bingley assured his friend. "I would ask how you are, but I can see for myself that you are in remarkable form these days."

"And I can see that you are in remarkably perceptive form these days."

Bingley laughed, but with that clarity of mind which summer had renewed, did perceive some change in Darcy, some freshness in his soul, as well. Apparently, summer was a new beginning for the pair of them.

"Come, let me show you into the house. And then you can listen to me regale you with the extraordinary tale of how I managed to kill a buck the other week, with my eyes shut."

Darcy rolled his eyes, drawing a chuckle from Bingley. Some things would never change about his friend.

Note: Next chapter Darcy goes home to Pemberley...


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Note: thanks for the reviews. I hope this chapter was worth the wait...I realize now that I need to include a bit more reference to Lizzy in the lead up._

Chapter Ten

High Noon

Fitzwilliam Darcy

A well-known saying exists that the more things change, the more they stay the same. It might also be said that the more a person changes, the more that person stays the same. As Darcy endeavored to alter his behavior, he discovered that his instincts remained unchanged. An onlooker might remark on the evident renovation of his personality, as Bingley persisted in doing during the week-long hunting party, but from within, Darcy underwent more of an evolution than a revolution.

Since childhood, he had always been kind. He had always been generous. He needed only to act on the impulses buried underneath years of self-importance and entitled satisfaction. It was a process of discovery, seeking out that forsaken trove of goodwill, and not a trial of creation. There was no violence in his change, which all acts of creation necessitate; there was only exhausting excavation.

Learning the skill of truly listening to others and training his heart to care for a stranger's plight required him to reach deep within himself. But reach he did, again and again. He doubted he would ever enjoy playing the part of the confidant or caretaker, doubted the depths of his stores of patience for the inconstancies of others, but as he persevered in choosing tolerance and forgiveness for the weakness of humanity, over impatience and implacability, he discovered a growing supply of those virtues and an increased ease in accessing them. And while he realized he may have always possessed these higher traits, he owed all the credit for their use and abundance to Elizabeth.

Her rejection had humbled him. It continued to humble him. She was in his thoughts each time he chose to smile at a foolish, but harmless social faux pas, each time he chose to hold his tongue at a well-meaning, but poorly-executed comment, in short, each time he allowed a mortal to act like a mortal. He was not a god, after all. He never had been. In fact, he had been a bigger fool than any of the fools he had ever mockingly judged. Including, he realized one day, Elizabeth's own family. As the nuances of his behavior softened, he could easily envision the look of shock that even Miss Lydia would have shown had she heard the pompous meanness of his proposal. He could hear her very loud, very appropriate guffaw, in fact.

Considering this new effort to act on his better parts, it was only natural that when his steward failed to complete a simple task in preparation for the annual fishing excursion at Pemberley, Darcy did not sigh and think meanly of the man—whose oversight of Pemberley had produced years of plenty—but offered to ride ahead a day of his traveling party, which consisted of Georgiana, Mrs. Annesley, and Bingley and his family—and help his steward with the task. Darcy had always been an understanding master, but Elizabeth had made him an understanding man.

And as an added reward for his patience, he would be able to inspect the room that Mrs. Reynolds had decorated for his sister's pleasure as well as delight in the beauty of the new headstones in the old cemetery. The piano and the gravestones, according to his steward's note, had finally arrived.

~0~

Darcy wished Georgiana farewell at the inn, leaving her in the care of Mrs. Annesley and Caroline Bingley. He could not say enough good things about his sister's lady's companion; he would not say anything bad about her friend. For all of Miss Bingley's contrivances aimed at entrapping his heart, she was a consistent friend to his sister. And Georgiana would enjoy her company on the road, far more than he could boast. He would see his sister and their guests at Pemberley tomorrow, he assured them. Bingley was none too happy to be stuck with his own family as fellow travelers but gave a hardy send-off all the same. Darcy stuck to his plan of departing before breakfast, hoping to arrive at Pemberley before noon.

The morning was warm, and he had to stop more often than expected to give his horse water and rest. Around midway, he pulled off the highway for a longer break, trotting a few yards into the woodland to a stream he knew ran coolly beneath the thick canopy. He slung his jacket over a tree branch and drenched his shirt in the stream. The sunlight dappled in through the leaves and onto him. He rubbed his stallion's neck, watching the golden drops of light shift over his skin and the horse's coat. The dazzling play of light mesmerized him, calling to mind the way the sunlight had moved in Elizabeth's hair as she had walked beside him through Rosings park.

"Some day, perhaps, old boy," he whispered to his horse. "Some day I may see her again, and if I am very lucky, I will show her that I am a better man." That was all he wanted from her—all that he allowed himself to want from her—the chance to show her that he had taken her reproofs to heart, and from heart to actions.

He lingered in the speckled shade of the trees for a spell, enjoying the solitude and silence. If he pushed ahead without further delay he should arrive at Pemberley within another hour or so. He tossed his horse an apple and ate one himself, before shrugging back into his jacket and mounting his stallion.

"To Pemberley, old boy," he clicked to his horse, riding back out onto the highway.

~0~

Darcy trotted up the drive to Pemberley, swinging around the front entrance and cutting a path straight for the stables. His stable boy jumped in surprise at his master's sudden appearance, scrambling up from a pile of hay and bowing at the ready to him. Darcy smirked at the lad and told him that all was well. "Just be sure to give my horse an extra brush and some carrots. He has earned his keep this hot morning."

Darcy had made record time this last leg of his journey, probably beating his steward who rode northward from town. He wiped the grime from behind his neck and pounded some of the highway dust from his jacket and trousers. He needed a change of clothes and some clean water to wipe off the heat of the ride. Thinking of his next meal, he walked down the side drive, turned around the corner to cross the lawn, and stopped dead.

Elizabeth Bennet stood twenty yards away from him. Their eyes locked; their cheeks flamed red. A slight breeze ruffled the skirt of her dress as his world came to a halt. A thousand thoughts screamed in his mind. Why was she here? How was she here? Would she stay?

She was beautiful, fairer and more vibrant than his memory had preserved. He would have smiled if he had been able to breathe. She moved before he could, whipping her back to him. Instinctively he ran after her. She stopped at the call of her name and turned back towards him.

"How is your family?" he stupidly asked. "How is Mrs. Bennet? Is your mother well?"

Elizabeth darted her gaze downward and nodded. He could hardly understand her accent when she replied. He did not care. He needed to hear her voice again—oh, her voice. If his memory had done an injustice to the lovely coloring of her complexion, it had committed a crime in the remembrance of her voice. It was perfection, tamed.

"And you are not at Longbourn. When did you leave?" he asked, hotter in the collar as he watched her lips move.

"About ten days ago."

"And that was when you saw your family last."

"Yes."

"And that was how long ago?"

"About ten days, sir."

"And how long have you been in Derbyshire?"

"Only a day or two."

"And you are staying with friends?"

"I have been lodging at inns. I will be staying at Lambton after today."

"And you have been in the county long?"

"A day or two."

She glanced up at him. He had no idea what he had just said to her, and feared she was about to flee from him. He had a feeling he had asked certain questions twice, but he could not say which questions. He certainly could not repeat back what her answers had been. He saw beads of sweat across her nose and around her eyes and ached to sweep the dew away with his fingertips. He wished she would not look away again, but her gaze immediately flickered back to the ground.

"I am just now come home," he needlessly explained. "It is very warm today."

He realized in the saying of it that he must be a horror to behold—unkempt and sweaty. Hungrily he rolled his gaze over her averted face and up and down her trembling frame. There was an energy that trebled between their bodies. Or perhaps that was the beating of the blood in his veins and the drums in his ears.

"Good day," he abruptly said, eager to shed these filthy clothes for fresh ones and properly receive her into his home. Had she been inside his home? "Good day," he mumbled again.

He bowed curtly, distracted with his own appearance and dumbstruck by hers. He rushed passed his gardener and some strangers—not even bothering to wonder at who they were—and jogged across the lawn, up the stairs, and through the front doors.

"Mrs. Reynolds!" he called before the door had closed shut. He knew his valet and butler were still en route from London and would arrive with the guests and his sister. Darcy absolutely started at the thought of Georgiana. Would Elizabeth agree to meet her? Would she allow him to introduce his sister at last?

Mrs. Reynolds approached him then, her expression wrinkled with wonder and concern. He must appear disturbed to warrant such a look as that. "I am quite well," he began without prompting. "I am only in a hurry. I need clean clothes and fresh water sent up to my rooms, as quickly as possible."

"Would you care for one of the footmen to assist you?"

"No, that is fine." Darcy moved toward the stairs but halted after taking three at a time. "Mrs. Reynolds," he called after her, running a shaking hand through his hair, "was there a young woman here earlier today? A brunette young woman with jewels for eyes?"

Darcy impatiently tapped his hand against his thigh, waiting for a reply. His housekeeper gestured at a nearby maid to do her bidding and turned towards her master, staring up at him with her lips pressed together and her eyes wide.

"I really cannot say whether the young lady had jewel-like eyes, but there was a young woman, rather pretty come to think of it, who toured the public rooms, not a half hour ago." Mrs. Reynolds paused. "I am remembering now that she mentioned she knew you a little, sir."

"She admitted that?"

"Yes, sir, she _admitted_ that—is that significant to you?"

"Everything about her is significant to me," he replied, too vulnerable to dissemble. "What exactly did she say, Mrs. Reynolds? I beg you to tell me all that she said."

"She did not say very much, sir, only concurred with my boasting, if you will pardon my boldness, that you are handsome."

Darcy blanched at the unexpected answer. "Handsome, Mrs. Reynolds? She called me handsome?"

"She did not say the word herself, but she heartily agreed with me on the matter. Are you pleased, sir?"

"Pleased? I am astonished." Out of all the comments he would have ranked as most likely for Elizabeth Bennet to utter about him, a positive word about his physical appearance would not have even made the list. It was something, however. He would not complain.

"Did she say anything else? Did she approve of Pemberley? Was there a room she seemed to especially enjoy? Perhaps the piano room? How long was she here for? Did she say where she was going afterwards?" Darcy put up his hand, adding, "Answer me that last, only. I must hurry if I am to catch her before she is gone."

"She should be nearing the west bridge at this point, unless there was some unforeseen delay. Phillip usually leads travelers through the westward coppice and around the lake, staying on the main path of the park that hugs the river."

"Very good. Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds, you have been more helpful than you can possibly know." He smiled lovingly down at his trusted housekeeper. "I daresay you left a far better impression on her than I ever have."

With that droll remark, Darcy started up the stairs again, undressing as he ran.

"Do you want some food sent up, sir?" Mrs. Reynolds called after him. "You must be hungry from your travels."

"I am quite satisfied at the moment," he answered without turning around. If he had spared the time to glance down, he would have seen Mrs. Reynolds barely able to suppress her giggles.

~0~

Darcy had never been more appreciative of the efficiency of his staff, than when throwing open his chamber doors, he found a footman topping off a cistern with steaming water and a crisp shirt hanging over the mirror. He dismissed the man, after thanking him, and vowed to procure sweets for his entire staff. Sometimes the fuss of another's help slowed things, and he would prefer some solitude to calm his mind.

Elizabeth was here, at his home. He could scarcely believe it, though he had seen her in the flesh with his own eyes. It was evident from the blush of shock that had washed over her face that she had not anticipated his arrival. But if she had not come to see him, why had she come to see his estate? For curiosity? For amusement? For inspection? He prayed Pemberley had been up to scratch. For a wild moment he wondered if she had come to seek a renewal of his addresses, but he banished the idea as swiftly as it had recklessly blown through his mind. Such hope was a fool's feast. There was nothing he could say for certain about her extraordinary visit, other than that it was extraordinary.

Within a quarter hour, he was washed, dressed, and out the front doors, his pace quick and sure. If Mrs. Reynolds was correct, and she was always correct about these sorts of things, then Phillip, their head gardener, should only be a mile from the house. Darcy took a short cut through his woods, breaking into a run when he slipped into the thicket. Frenetic as his thoughts were, he forced himself to slow down as he stepped onto the main path. He saw the movement of pastel colors across the river, and knew he was within yards of speaking to her again.

Delayed, he realized that she was obviously not alone in her travels. There had been that couple standing by Phillip, who must be her traveling companions. "Blast," he cursed at himself, chastising his lack of civility in asking for an introduction. It was not as if she had a high opinion of his kindness toward strangers. He would not omit that mark of politeness a second time. He would be gratuitously hospitable. Perhaps he ought to invite Elizabeth and her friends to stay over at Pemberley. He had more than enough rooms—but no, he reined in his fancy as he strode across a narrow bridge, he must not drive her away by a deluge of generosity, in the same way he had driven her away by a dearth of it. He went around a bend and suddenly she was in front of him. And he forgot everything, except how much he had missed her. His sweet Elizabeth. But he could not call her that, he reminded himself. No, he could not call her that.

"Miss Bennet," he said with perfect inflection.

She bowed her head. "Mr. Darcy. We were just finishing our delightful tour. The park is charming and—" She stopped speaking, and he waited for a moment to see if she would go on. He would accept praise of Pemberley from her as little or as lauded as she deigned to give it. But she had apparently finished and, remembering his intent, he asked for the honor of being introduced to her friends. In a glance, he judged that they were some fashionable couple, likely from town.

"This is my Aunt and Uncle Gardiner, my mother's brother. He lives across from his warehouse in London."

Darcy did his best to hide his surprise at the familial connection, noticing the sly look Elizabeth flashed at him from beneath those curtains of lashes. This was his first real test, he knew. He would not fail. So it had been at school; so it would be in life.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he said. "And what sort of business do you trade in, Mr. Gardiner?"

"Textiles, sir."

"That is a growing industry. You must be very busy."

"Indeed I am. We had planned on going to the Lake District, but I had to shorten our travel in order to return to my business a littler earlier."

"How fortunate that you could take the time off to see as much of the country as you have. It is a beautiful time of year."

"A beautiful time to fish, especially. I see you have a bevy of trout nipping for some bait."

"More than I know what to do with," Darcy replied. He motioned for them to continue walking, assuring them that he had not meant to curtail their enjoyment of the river path by joining them. "Phillip, you may return to your other duties, if you wish." His gardener nodded and hiked away as the rest of the group meandered forward, edging closer to the house.

Elizabeth paired off with her aunt in front of the group, and Darcy soaked in the sight of her. He quietly observed the sway of her skirts, and the elegant way she tilted her head to better listen to her aunt. Mrs. Gardiner was fair for her age, soft around the edges from care and children. Darcy walked and conversed with Mr. Gardiner in the rear, more and more impressed by the man with each new utterance. He was a kind-faced man, with a ginger beard and hair. Darcy struggled to reconcile this dulcet-toned, intelligent man with his knowledge of the sister, discovering the only resemblance in the two siblings' eye color. In this brief exchange, he learned a happy coincidence that Mrs. Gardiner had spent her childhood in Lambton, and had renewed some old friendships there during their trip.

"She has always boasted that she was born in the loveliest of counties, and I am beginning to think she is entirely right to be so proud," Mr. Gardiner said.

"I am not one to disagree with her, and you will find perhaps an even greater bias in my opinion."

"It is with little wonder that you would feel thus. I have never seen such an abundance of fish in one stream in all my life."

"Please help me thin out my river and fish here whenever you like, for as long as you are in the neighborhood," he invited Mr. Gardiner, after the gentleman—for he was a gentleman, Darcy easily perceived.

"We will supply you with a rod and tackle," Darcy continued. "You have met Phillip, and he is usually working somewhere about the lawns during the summer months. He will be your guide, or you are more than welcome to knock on the door and I would be glad to assist you, if I am at home."

"You are too generous," Gardiner insisted.

"It is no bother. Are you a man interested in all forms of water life? I have some rare water plants that grow just down this side of the bank." Mr. Gardiner's eyes lit up and Darcy suggested that they take a moment to inspect the unusual foliage. He led the group down a steep hill to the embankment, and with muted fanfare, pointed out the riverside attraction.

The Gardiners gasped at the sight of such a large, exotic lily, but Elizabeth, for whom this little detour was designed, remained unphased. Darcy knew only too well that she was not a woman easily impressed, but he could not help showing off and trying to amaze. This may be his only chance to enchant her with the natural wonders under his care. Noticing her distraction, he quickly told the story of his grandfather's procurement of the lily from the West Indies, and the group trecked back up the hill to the main road.

A happy exchange of positions took place following the brief excursion and Darcy found himself side by side with Elizabeth, the Gardiners trailing behind. Elizabeth and he walked silently step in step for about a minute, before she, in an agitated voice, apologized for her intrusion.

"Your arrival was most unexpected, sir. I wish you to know that I was assured of your absence before I came. Your housekeeper informed us that you would certainly not be here 'til tomorrow; and indeed, before we left Blackwell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the county."

"Do not trouble yourself," he replied, sensing her discomfort. "I am usually away for a good part of the summer, and had not anticipated returning until tomorrow, but I had some business with my steward which occasioned me to come forward earlier than my traveling party."

Darcy hesitated. In all his excitement at seeing Elizabeth, he had forgotten that Bingley and his sisters would be staying at Pemberley. He would rather not broach such a potentially divisive subject, but if he wanted to invite her to dine at Pemberley before she departed from the neighborhood, he would have to do it. Sooner was better than later, he supposed.

With a sigh, he told her of their mutual acquaintances who would be joining him early tomorrow. She answered his admission with the bow of her head. He studied her from his periphery to watch how she digested the news. The last time they had spoken Bingley's name to each other, harsh words had been said. The graveness of her expression made him certain that she was thinking of that fateful argument. "I was wrong," he wanted to declare. "I was so woefully, detestably wrong." Instead he bit back the urge to grovel. He did not want her decamping to another county. He wanted her to stay, and if not for him, then to meet his sister. He steeled his resolve and asked her if she would allow him to introduce Georgiana to her, fumbling over his words as he worried that he was demanding too much of her.

"I would be honored," she quietly answered, and Darcy blew his breath out in heartwarming gratitude. Whatever she thought of him, however little she regarded him, she had the generosity of spirit not to include his sister in her contempt. Darcy did not want to press his chances with her and followed her lead in keeping silent for the remainder of the hike up to the house. He wavered between awe that she was walking beside him, not comfortably—that much he could tell—but willingly, certainly calmly, and fear that he would do or say something which would ignite her ire.

They outpaced her aunt and uncle and reached the carriage a good quarter hour before the Gardiners. Wishful, he asked her to walk into the house. She declined, and Darcy submitted that he must wait until another time to see her within the walls of Pemberley. It had been a dream of his for so long, he could stand another day for its realization. He did not want to simply stare at her, but he could think of nothing inconsequential to say which would avoid more awkwardness. And he would not talk about what he wanted to discuss—what had she thought of the letter, what did she think of Wickham now, and spilling a hundred whirling dervishes int

o his stomach, what did she think of him now. Was he still the last man on earth whom she could ever be prevailed on to marry?

"I have been traveling," she abruptly said, as though only just recalling that fact. "This is the most northward I have ever been."

Darcy latched onto her words, taking her lead in breaking the silence. He could have become completely lost in wondering and watching her. "And have you enjoyed the north?" he asked. "Did you visit Matlock?"

She exclaimed that she had visited there, as well as Dove Dell, and energetically answered each of his informed inquiries into her likes and dislikes of the principle sights along her trip. His questions and comments were not spoken haphazardly, but with a sincere desire to drink in as much of her voice as he could, and a longing to know her better. At length the Gardiners came across the lawn and ambled to the carriage. Darcy smiled at the evident love and respect which the couple shared for one another, noticing the gentle way that Mr. Gardiner held his wife's arm.

"Will you not come into the house and enjoy some refreshments?" he asked, more hopeful that he would receive an affirmative reply from the relatives. To his disappointment, they were as disinclined as their niece.

"We have prior engagements, but thank you good sir, for your invitation," Mr. Gardiner said. "We have enjoyed your beautiful property immensely."

"Yes," Mrs. Gardiner agreed, "I feel as if I am a young girl again and seeing Pemberley for the first time."

"Mr. Gardiner mentioned that you grew up near Lambton, but I did not know you had been to Pemberley before today. Has it changed much since you last visited?"

"If it has, it has only been for the better," she replied.

"Thank you," he simply said.

The Gardiners smiled back at him, and he found himself almost blushing at their kind expressions. He assisted Mrs. Gardiner into the carriage first, and then Elizabeth. His pulse quickened at the warmth of her hand, as the weight of her fingers wrapped around his own. Mr. Gardiner tipped his hat at him and climbed into his carriage. Darcy stepped back and watched them drive away, until he could no longer define the expression of Elizabeth's gaze.

 _Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews. :) And to "Guest," (or anyone reading with the same thoughts), I guess I just have a different view of what Elizabeth's "selfish disdain for the feelings of others" and like-rebukes meant to Darcy. I see it more as a universal indictment of his behavior, not relegated to his behavior merely towards those in his class. Sure, Austen was a classist and Darcy is no different. But a classist can still be a humanist. I do not think it was by accident that the first real shifting of Elizabeth's opinion about him comes when she is being given a tour of Pemberley by his servant, or that Elizabeth's first real prejudice which softens (post-letter) is that he is a good and benevolent master. For me, Burrows' (or the undergardner's or the cook's) role is to highlight Darcy's innate kindness, which he seeks to reveal more fully after Elizabeth's criticism. We are told he is a good master through Mrs. Reynolds in the original text, I am showing what that means and how that augments following the humbling of Hunsford. I include Darcy's interaction with his neighbors to show his dealings with those of his own class. Because I think Darcy's change is more about revealing who he already is. But as the great Sirius Black said, (paraphrasing)...You can get a better measure of a man by how he treats his inferiors than by how he treats his equals. Or another quote along those lines that an Englishman circa 1800s would know: In as much as ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. Burrows is a means to showing the actual embodiemet of this virtue, not the mere lip-service to it, but he is not the ultimate reason for any change in Darcy. Elizabeth is. And although he makes two appearances in these last couple chapters, Burrows is a minor character and will only make one more brief appearance later on. He is not meant to detract from the story, but I appreciate your opinion. It has made me think about if I am devoting too much time to his appearances._


	11. Chapter 11

_Note: Thanks as always for the reviews and for your comments and critiques. I really love to read your insights. And sorry this is late. I couldn't get it to load last night and gave up after the website was giving me grief.  
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Chapter Eleven

Fools Rush In

Fitzwilliam Darcy

When Darcy entered the house, Mrs. Reynolds was standing in the entry hall, an expectant look upon her face. He recalled his wayward comments from earlier, almost sheepish at his display of emotion.

"Our guests have departed for today," he said, wanting to dispel any curiosity. "They had already made plans."

"Ah, very good, Mr. Darcy," his housekeeper replied. "Will you be wanting your meal in the dining hall this afternoon or sent up to your chambers?"

"Neither, please have whatever the cooks have prepared sent to my study. Mr. Stenlock should be arriving any moment to discuss some estate matters."

Darcy turned toward the hall which led to his study, but after a few steps, stopped. "And Mrs. Reynolds, have a meal sent for Mr. Stenlock, as well. Does Mrs. Burrows have any of her cakes made up?"

"I believe she has one very small cake, sir. We had not anticipated your arrival until tomorrow."

"Have her send up whatever sweet is already prepared then."

"It is almond, sir." Mrs. Reynolds frowned. The entire staff knew of his disdain for nuts.

"Send it up anyway, Mrs. Reynolds. It is for Mr. Stenlock. He has earned it."

Darcy thanked her without waiting for an answer and continued down the hall. He owed his steward far more than a sweet. He might offer him a raise, too. If not for him, Darcy would not have arrived home today. He would not have seen Elizabeth.

"I hope Stenlock likes almonds," he mused, pushing open the door to his study. "He can have a shipload of them, if he does."

~0~

Darcy finished his business with Mr. Stenlock—who did enjoy almonds—by the early evening. He sent his steward away with a perplexed expression, a handbag of nuts, and a promise of a wage increase. Coming out of the study, he told a servant to send some bread and cheese up to his chambers for him to graze on later. He had little appetite for supper, and even less patience to sit still and eat at a table.

Contemplative, he wandered the expanse of his house, slowly meandering through the public rooms, running his gaze over the furnishings and portraits, and humming the melody he had associated with Elizabeth since he had first heard her sing it at Lucas Lodge. In his mind, he replayed his interactions with her from this morning, unable to determine if she had felt more pain or pleasure because of him. There had been uneasiness and surprise, but had there been a hint of satisfaction? Had he imagined a flutter of enjoyment beneath her discomfort? He did not trust himself to accurately read her expressions; her face was a language he had never learned.

In so many ways, she had been a mystery to him for all the days he had known her. It was a strange thing, to feel so close to someone and at the same time to feel so far away. He could write a book about the way she held her head, or the sound of her laugh. He could pen a poem, if he could pen a poem at all, about the look in her eye as she beheld a wonder of nature. He could sing a song, if he could sing a song at all, about how she preferred to spend her days. But with all this knowledge, he could not say what transpired behind those lovely eyes, her thoughts as much a secret from him as when they had been strangers.

Darcy grunted at his own blindness. "I cannot let her leave here without trying to—"

The oath, spoken only in his mind, fettered into nothing. Was he prepared to make as big a fool of himself as he had in the spring? What were his intentions with her now? His wishes were the same. She was his unforgettable, his unattainable. She did something to him. She had since almost the first moments of their acquaintance. He reflected on that sunny, fall morning when she had marched into Netherfield's breakfast parlor, her tousled hair and dirt-hemmed skirts a shocking contrast to the frigid impeccability of Bingley's sisters, and how the shock of that moment had lit some untouched wick within his soul, that spark in her face which ignited him to this day.

"I suppose the answer is, yes," he said to the emptiness of one of his cavernous rooms, "I would rather be a fool, than a farce."

He knew what it felt like to have her refuse him. It had nearly destroyed him, but he had risen again. He could handle her rejection. He could not abide her absence. Tread lightly, he would. But tread steadily, he must. She, nor her relatives, would doubt the shape and measure of his heart.

Darcy found himself in the newly-furnished apartment for his sister. In the rush of Elizabeth's appearance, he had forgotten to look over the room. He stopped his feet and roamed his gaze about the room, a smile spreading over his face. His eyes rested on the new piano, the gleam of the wood mesmerizing in the moonlight. The shimmer of the glare reminded him of that sparkle in Elizabeth's eye.

"Oh, that I might one night bring her to this room, to see how perfectly her gaze matches the light of the evening sky and to hear her sing."

The wish spilled out from him, without his permission. And although the pain of knowing it would likely never happen stung, he would not call it back. The utterance was too sweet a dream.

~0~

The next morning, Darcy watched from one of Pemberley's upstairs windows as the carriage containing his sister and his guests pulled up into the drive. The group descended, Bingley's head bobbing in laughter, his sisters' heads shaking in disapproval, Hurst stretching and yawning, and Georgiana timidly glancing up at her home. Darcy hoped she was not too fatigued from the short trip. He was impatient to visit the Lambton Inn. He hurried down the stairs and greeted the arriving party at the front door, gently pulling his sister aside and confiding in her about the treat he had in store.

"She is at Lambton?" his sister asked, astonished. "At this very moment?"

"I would imagine so. I know she is staying there."

"And you wish to leave now?"

"If you are able," he replied.

Georgiana sucked in her breath, her cheeks suddenly pink. "Should I change? This is an older dress. I only wear it on travel days. It is not very fashionable."

Darcy shook his head, cupping his sister's warm cheek. "She will see you and love you. She does not care for finery. Gold does dazzle her as it does so many others. You could wear a burlap sack and she would not like you any less."

Georgiana laughed softly, and gulping, nodded her head. Darcy smiled in return. He had not been this giddy since boyhood. He immediately called for the curricle and while waiting, ensured that his guests were well-situated, taking a moment to inform Bingley of the reason for his coming departure. He had planned out this revelation during his midnight meandering, eager to disclose the whereabouts of Elizabeth with as little reference to her sister as possible. Bingley balked at Darcy, but quickly recovering, asked if he could join Darcy in his visit.

"I will take the curricle with my sister and let one of the stable hands know to ready a horse for you."

"Excellent, Darcy. I shall be along directly."

Darcy hesitated, doubting his decision to avoid saying more than he had. He wondered if he should tell his friend now of his history with Elizabeth Bennet, but Bingley ran off before he could decide. Hurrying down the steps to the curricle, with Georgiana on his arm, Darcy promised himself that he would confide all to his friend, should anything change in his relationship with the Bennet family. "And if that ever occurs, perhaps I can give him hope that his chances with her sister may return."

He helped his sister into the curricle seat and climbed in beside her. Before he slapped the reins, he directed the nearby footman to alert the stables of Bingley's needs. "Bingley is coming, too?" Georgiana asked, her bonnet falling back as the curricle lurched forward.

"He would not be dissuaded," Darcy answered, slapping the reins again and encouraging the horse into a gallop.

They rode past the chestnuts and oaks, the shade of the trees cooling the path out of the park and scenting the breeze. Darcy hummed that melody again, breaking the comfortable quiet every so often with a few precious tidbits about Elizabeth—her love of music, the richness of her song, the quickness of her wit. Georgiana nodded, biting her lip harder and harder with each new piece of information. By the time they pulled up in front of the inn, she had dug a welt into her bottom lip.

"Georgie, what is the matter?" Darcy asked, finally noticing her disquiet.

"She is going to loathe me," she confessed as tears welled in her eyes. "I know it. People always despise me."

"No one despises you."

Georgiana sniffled back the sorrow and glanced at the shop across the street. "That shopkeeper called me proud the last time I came into his shop," she pointed at the store window, "because I did not buy some of his ribbon. It was horrible. He thought I could not hear him."

Darcy glowered at the darkened store window, before turning back to his sister. He breathed in some calm and stroked her cheek. "I told you—you have nothing to fear from Elizabeth—from Miss Bennet."

Georgiana stifled a smile at his misspeak and sat up straight, holding out her hand. "I will do my best, for you."

Darcy leaped off the curricle and helped his sister down. He looked up at the inn while he secured the curricle on the post, catching a familiar face in the upstairs window. His heart stuttered in anticipation. He crooked his elbow in Georgian's direction. She fixed her bonnet, tugged at her gloves, and slipped her arm through his. "I shall make a good first impression," she said with a sigh. "Or I will do my best to try."

Their entrance into the little inn caused a mild stir. The innkeeper's wife's eyes bulged and her chin slipped off her palm and thumped onto the counter top when she spotted them. Her ruddy cheeks deepened to a painful crimson and she clucked at her son to run for his father. Darcy stepped forward and requested the room location of the Gardiner party, waiting with a diligent air of patience for the reply. After several fans of her hand and exclamations of "good gracious me," the woman answered Darcy. He thanked her, as the boy and the innkeeper scurried in, clambering to bow as they led Georgiana and him up the stairwell.

The hallway was a dingy, narrow place, and Darcy had to stand flesh against the stiff wall, with Georgiana shaking by his side, while the innkeeper knocked on the Gardiner's door and announced, to Darcy's dismay, "the most 'onerable Mr. Darcy of the grandest Pemberley and 'is most 'andsomest sister the lady of Pemberley, Miss Darcy." Darcy was only glad he did not have to endure the unctuous introduction in full view of Elizabeth. He would rather not witness her derision. And he could not help but wonder if the innkeeper had taken a page out of Mr. Burrows' book, or if he had in fact stolen it entirely. Darcy recalled that the Burrows had stayed at the inn when in town for the elder Mr. Burrows' funeral.

The innkeeper finished his grand gesture and scuttled past Darcy, backing out the door in a bow, his buttocks bumping into his illustrious visitors on his exit. Darcy swallowed his disdain, an easier thing to do now that he was in clear sight of Elizabeth. He smiled at her, admiring the heightened color in her face, and introduced Georgiana.

"Miss Bennet, this is my sister, Georgiana Darcy. And Georgiana, this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

The cheeks of the two young women whose welfare was his welfare, whose hearts he _wished_ were both his, bled red. Darcy's gaze shifted back and forth between his sister and Elizabeth, relishing the moment. Elizabeth uttered a common pleasantry, to which Georgiana replied in kind. This was a meeting which Darcy had been wanting to happen since the fall, and the moment was so sweet, he could hardly remember anything about it other than the feel of it. Elizabeth instantly smiled at Georgiana, who timidly smiled in return, and the long-awaited introduction was complete. Darcy alerted Elizabeth and the Gardiners to Bingley's wish of joining them, and sure enough, at the mention of his name, Bingley appeared. Merriment and quick laughter ensued. Darcy talked mainly with Mr. Gardiner, enjoying the sight of Elizabeth and Georgiana in conversation. He caught wisps of their dialogue, the words of meter and melody floating his way. He wanted to sit closer by them, but felt that Georgiana might do better if he let her navigate this initial conversation on her own merits. He made sure to extend again his invitation for Mr. Gardiner to fish at Pemberley, specifically asking him to join in tomorrow's amusement.

"Mr. Bingley and his brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst will be there, as well as a few neighbors. We could use another line. As you saw, my river requires several talented anglers."

Mr. Gardiner answered that he foresaw no impediment to the plan, glancing at his niece with a warm grin. Elizabeth must have sensed her uncle's admiration, for she looked up, catching Darcy's keen gaze instead of Mr. Gardiner's glance. She blushed at Darcy's steady regard and turned away. In times past, he had always attempted to mute his affection, but he had no wish to conceal his interest now. However large she may measure the depth of his adoration, it was undeniably limited in its estimation. He loved her in an endless, incalculable way. Let her try to comprehend the fathomless. Perhaps she might understand it better than he could.

The sunlight filtered into the cramped sitting room, spreading a glistening sheen over the faces of all its occupants. There was a musty scent which clung to the tapestries and furniture, common to traveling inns, and the innkeeper's son scampered down the hall two or three times, ogling at his renown visitors. Darcy could not recall a time he had been more content. He did not have much occasion to converse with Elizabeth during this brief visit, but he did not mind. She was near him, laughing and smiling and becoming a friend to his sister. He could hardly complain that he was not the sole object of her attention. Her cordiality toward himself and kindness toward Georgiana were more than he had believed possible two days ago.

After about a half hour, they rose to leave and Darcy prompted his sister to invite Elizabeth and the Gardiners for dinner. Darcy baited his breath while the Gardiners sought Elizabeth's preference before accepting the offer, exhaling when they interpreted her sudden interest in the inn's décor as sufficient evidence of her approval.

On exiting the inn, Darcy thanked the innkeeper's wife, who happened to be busy scrubbing a shiny, clean tea kettle at the base of the stairs. The lady swooned in response. Darcy deftly caught her, and the pristine teapot, and quickly handed her and the pot off to her husband. "Apologies, sir," the innkeeper grimaced. "Not at all. You have a fine establishment," " Darcy assured. Winking at the son, he donned his hat and stepped outside, Bingley chuckling and Georgiana blushing beside him.

"I would suggest that you avoid returning for at least a month, Darcy," Bingley said, stepping into his stirrups and pulling up onto his saddle. "You do not want her loss of health on your conscious. I was sure she was going to crack her crown if you had not saved her."

Darcy shrugged, and Bingley laughed again. He quieted as Darcy assisted Georgiana into the curricle, a sudden seriousness to his expression. "Thank you, Darcy," he emphatically said. "I know this was a mortification that you endured for the sake of my peace of mind. You are truly a great friend."

Darcy did not know how to react. Bingley nodded, a quick, tight-lipped smile, and galloped away before he could find his voice. Darcy climbed into the curricle beside Georgiana and picked up the reins.

"Why would Bingley say that?" his sister asked.

Darcy clicked at the horse, pulling into the street at a plodding pace, no longer in a hurry. "Bingley has a fondness for the Bennet family," he slowly said. It was not his place to divulge his friend's past love affairs, even to a confidant as trustworthy as his sister was. "He was grateful to renew the acquaintance," he further explained.

"Oh," Georgiana replied. She toyed with the lace of her gloves for a moment, adding: "So he does not know you are in love with Miss Bennet."

Darcy leaned back from surprise. His sister had not spoken it forcefully, but as an acknowledged fact. He swatted at a fly, and after opening his mouth and shutting it a couple times, confirmed that his friend was as yet unaware of his admiration. Georgiana furrowed her brow, and Darcy asked her what caused the confusion.

"The male mind." She shrugged. "How can he _not_ know? I honestly do not understand why you would not confide in one of your closest friends about something as dear as your heart, but putting that aside, he has eyes to see, does he not?"

Darcy attempted a smile, the heat of a blush on his cheeks. In his intent to signal his love to the object of his desire, he had forgotten that others would notice the signal just as easily. He had not meant to be obvious.

"You are wise beyond your years," he said at last to his sister. "Far wiser than your elders." Georgiana ducked her head at his compliment. "Did you like her?" he asked, without naming her.

Georgiana beamed up at him and clasped his arm. "She is wonderful. I am hopeful that she thinks I am only half as wonderful."

"How could she not?"

"I did try to talk, but even when I struggled to find something to say, she had enough questions to keep us occupied. She asked me about my music, which was very kind."

Darcy remembered the surprise waiting for his sister in her newly-decorated sitting room. He had forgotten that he had inspected the new piano and brighter furnishings yesterday during his late-night wandering. He turned the curricle into the Pemberley drive. The trees swayed in a whimsical breeze and the birds twilled on their leafy boughs.

"I have another treat in store for you today," he whispered, as Georgiana leaned her head against his shoulder, calmer in the shadow and privacy of home. He could feel the weight of her fatigue.

"Being home is all the treat I need," she sleepily replied.

"Just as well, I have a treat for you."

"Then I am sure I will love it."

Georgiana closed her eyes, her breathing shallow. Darcy let the reins slacken in his hands and inhaled the freshness of the air. Carefully, he allowed himself a minute to tread into dreamy thoughts of the impossible, imagining what treats he would provide for Elizabeth should she ever give him the chance. From what Georgiana had revealed, it was not likely Elizabeth doubted her power to command. His house came into view at that moment. "She could command Pemberley, if she wanted it," he thought.


	12. Chapter 12

_AN: Another two-for day. Does this chapter seem jarring after the happy-go-lucky chapters before. I wonder about pacing here. But I don't know where else to put this...I might need to edit it out. It's just I kind of like that Wickham and Lydia are already run away while Elizabeth and Darcy are blissfully ignorant and having a rapprochement. Thoughts? And thanks for the reviews.  
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Chapter Twelve

Running Man

George Wickham

Wickham sat at his desk, the lamp wick sputtering and the rain whooshing against the thin window panes. In the distance, he heard church bells ring out the midnight hour, the chimes dinning in unison with the growling thunder.

As a child, he had loved summer storms. His mother would climb into his bed and whisper wild tales of swashbuckling pirates and fair maidens in distress. He had secretly lived for those rumbling, wet nights. His mother had never been the affectionate kind, always too busy with her parade of friends and her tricks at the card tables to pay him much attention—except on those stormy, summer nights when, he realized years later, she had been frightened and needed some company to quell the fear. It was not as if she could have run to her husband.

From the time of his birth to the time of his mother's death, Wickham's parents had been married in name only. They were polite to each other, but as different as night is to day, or thunder is to sunshine. His mother had died of biliousness on the eve of his second year at university. Always overly enamored of the drink, she had shared a jolly laugh all the way through her last goblet of wine. He still smiled fondly at the glee he had seen in her yellow eyes from her last win at twenty-one. His father, good but terribly dreary, had survived his wife by only a couple years. Wickham had not mourned his father's death as he had his mother's, or even the late Mr. Darcy's death—but it had nevertheless left a mark on the young man. It had given him the loathsome appellation of orphan, a distinction he used when its merits warranted pity. What a pity his creditors did not care a false farthing that he was orphaned and alone in this world.

The bells in the distance finished ringing, that final, twelfth clang echoing ominously. Grimly he stared down at the papers in front of him. At the request of Denny, he had compiled a list of all his debts. What a horrible thing to do. The list tallied an extraordinary amount. It was unpayable. He wondered if he could escape to the continent and find some better luck there. Thanks to Darcy, it was not as if he had options nearer to home.

Wickham heard a soft moan from his bed, and glancing behind, saw the wide-open mouth from whence the sound had come, those rosebud lips gaping open, drool dripping off their edges. He frowned. Perhaps he should not have invited her to come along with him on this excursion.

Fancy and boredom, and a slight desire to get back at the young lady's older sister for spurning him, had been the initial enticement. But the pursuit had been over before it had even begun. The young lady had been desperate for his attention, and deliciously low in her attempts to seduce him. He admitted now that she had enthralled him with her common flirtation. Casually, he had wooed her, for a thrill, for a distraction. He had thought the tryst would finish with stolen kisses and feathery touches, but when Denny had alerted him in no uncertain terms that his days in the regiment were numbered if he could not pay his debts of honor, Wickham knew he had to desert Brighton camp before he became a casualty. Why go it alone when there was a companion for his amusement at the ready?

The young lady had leaped at the prospect of running away with him. He might have muttered something about Gretna Greene and an elopement—but he could not possibly be held to whatever he had promised when full in his cups and fearful of prowling creditors. She had won a bargain for her troubles. He knew she had longed for attention and adventure; he had granted her the immortality of notoriety. That was a rare gift, indeed.

Oh, the girl was good enough fun. He had certainly enjoyed himself at her expense, or rather, her reputation's expense. But her presence complicated his hopes of seeking a new life in France.

He smirked, and pushed away from the table, and his tally of troubles. It would all work out. Things always did—for him, at least. The girl would be on her own when he managed to sail off to the continent. Wickham crawled onto the bed, nestling in beside the warm, soft body of Lydia Bennet.

The thunder roared above in the London skies and shook the beams of their tiny rented loft, a squat room that was little more than a roofed attic. The dust settled down from the creaky rafters and the boarder in the room below cursed at the storm outside. Wickham draped his arm over Lydia's waist and kissed her apple cheek.

"Is it morning, darling?" she mumbled.

"No, my dear, but it is a new day and I have a story just for you."


	13. Chapter 13

_AN: So Harvey features quite a bit in the first book, and he comes up again later on. As mentioned, he is having some marital problems. And Darcy in the very first chapter of the first book learns of Harvey's marriage and is not thrilled about it. Thanks for the reviews. And Guest...yes, Jenkinson. I can't believe I overlooked that...or my proofreaders for my other book. Haha. Thanks._

Chapter Thirteen

Gone Fishing

Edward Gardiner

It had been too long since Gardiner had been able to hook some bait and watch a nibble shake his line. It was the quiet waiting, the steady patience that attracted him to fishing. The cool waters rushing past, the clear lake spreading outward, the stream trickling over a cluster of smooth stone—these were the calm delights of a fishing trip, punctuated by the primordial satisfaction of outsmarting a slippery creature that moved below the murky surface. He waxed philosophical and poetical as he stood amongst the tall grass reeds, enjoying the company of a peculiar grouping of men.

Gardiner was a confident man, neither arrogant nor obsequious, but contented with himself and sure of his place in the world. As a young man, he had chosen his own way, steering away from the family tradition in law and making a mark in the industry of trade. Life had happened, as it does, affording him with ups and downs, and everywhere in between. By the age of fifty, he had the experience and economy to provide his family with wisdom and comfort, and the added grace which accompanies a life well-spent.

It was this natural charm, tendered by age, which rendered him an instant confidant. He would meet someone at noon, and by tea, that person would—be it a weathered journeyman, a delicate invalid, an unscrupulous bailiff or, as was the case today, a hapless gentleman—pour out his or her heart to Gardiner, confessing secrets for the first and final time.

Gardiner had only known this Mr. Harvey for a quarter hour when the gentleman, in a long sigh, had opened his mouth and revealed all his woes and regrets since his wedding day. "It was a year ago yesterday that we made our solemn vows, before God and family," Harvey concluded. "I can hardly believe it has been a year. I can hardly believe it has only been a year. All at once, it seems as if I was standing before her at the church only hours ago, and somehow also a lifetime ago."

"That is not so unusual," Gardiner replied. He had been listening to Mr. Harvey discuss his wife's public affair and her disgruntled pregnancy, nodding and shaking his head at all the right points, but this was the first time he had spoken in several minutes. Harvey lifted his shoulders in a universal gesture of defeat.

"Come, man," Gardiner encouraged, "you cannot allow one bad mistake, one very bad mistake, mar an entire lifetime of marriage. You have a child who will soon be in need of a father, and from all that you have said, you have a wife who is need of a husband."

"Is it really that easy?"

"It is not easy, but it is simple. Now tell me true, if you could go back a year, would you tell your younger self to abandon the engagement?"

Harvey rubbed his hand along his fishing rod, pondering. "No, I would not," he answered, in a voice of awe. "I would go through with it. Those first few months—they were bliss divine."

At that moment, a sharp tug jerked at Gardiner's arm. "Well, there you are! There you are!" he exclaimed, reeling in the line. A shining, fat fish flew out of the river, flapping wildly on the hook. Gardiner yanked on the line with one hand and caught hold of the scaly body with the other. "Good day, fellow," he said as he unhooked the mouth and tossed the fish into the nearby basket. The fish slapped sickly against the wooden walls, and Gardiner chuckled at his good luck.

"See now, Mr. Harvey, all you need is patience. You already have your fish on the line, so to speak. Just make sure you never let her off the hook again."

The young gentleman laughed, thanking Gardiner for his ear and his advice. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley walked over to them, congratulating Gardiner on the first catch of the day. They had been standing a few yards down the river, beside Mr. Hurst and the brother-in-law to Mr. Harvey, a foppish young man by the name of Beverly. Gardiner surveyed the gentlemen, amending his assessment—the most foppish young man of the group. Mr. Darcy was the only exception, even Mr. Hurst with his girth and grimness was bedecked in frills and feathers. Mr. Bingley wore less dandified accessories, but the shade of his trousers would have outshined any maiden's dress.

Gawdy trousers aside, Gardiner had been impressed with Mr. Bingley. It was obvious to see why Jane had fallen for the young man, and why she persisted in nursing tender feelings for him. Sunshine radiated out from his easy smile and kind eyes, the sort of heartwarming brightness Gardiner had formerly only perceived in his angelic niece. He did not know why the young man had abandoned sweet Jane, but from a few of Mr. Bingley's morning greetings, Gardiner did suspect she was not entirely without hope.

Mr. Bingley smiled broadly at him again, voicing a wish that he might someday see such a fine angler attack Netherfield's brooks, before casting his line back into the river, choosing a spot more downstream. "Perhaps so, young man," Gardiner thought. "Perhaps so."

Gardiner walked over to the tackle basket to pick up another worm, and noticed Mr. Darcy watching him. Now _that_ young man was not as obvious as his friend was. It was clear Mr. Darcy admired Elizabeth. It was clear Elizabeth knew of his admiration. It was anything but clear what either Mr. Darcy or Elizabeth planned to do about that admiration.

Gardiner had nothing but praise for Mr. Darcy. By yesterday evening, he had abandoned whatever false notions his sister Fanny harbored about the gentleman. It should not have surprised him that Fanny had been mistaken about someone's character—she had been an abominable judge since girlhood. Gardiner recalled her falling for the most illiterate reprobate in army red when she had been a young woman, and the lengths his father and he had taken to prevent her from throwing her life away on such an amoral idiot. Fanny must not understand a man like Mr. Darcy, her nature drawn to complicated figures that promised drama. Mr. Darcy was disarming in his authenticity. He possessed a more reserved air than his friend, or his neighbor, but there was an undeniable goodness about him. It did require the self-possession to see past the intimidating mien. And as a man happy with himself, Gardiner could see the young gentleman clearly. Even if he could not decipher the gentleman's history with Elizabeth.

"I will ask a cook to fillet and bake your fish for you, Mr. Gardiner," Mr. Darcy said, approaching him.

"That is generous."

"It is no trouble. You ought to have the opportunity to partake of your own catch. From the size of it, you could easily feed Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet."

Gardiner swallowed a grin at the cleverness of the young man in bringing the discussion around from his catch to his niece. He stood up, checked his line, and moved closer to the river bank. Mr. Darcy followed him and both men cast their lines into the water. The river bubbled when the bait dipped beneath the current and Gardiner eased into the tranquility of the wait.

"Mrs. Gardiner delights in a well-seared fish. Eliza rarely voices a preference for any plate. I remember when she was a young girl, my sister would realize that she had skipped every single meal of the day because she had either had her nose in a book, or been wandering about the avenues, exploring. Even now, she sometimes forgets to eat. It is not a pleasure for her," Gardiner patted his hefty belly, "as it is for others. It is a means to an end."

"Yes, I have noticed she prefers plain dishes to ragouts," Mr. Darcy said.

"There is one exception, of course, to this rule. She will always take dessert. It is a wonder she has such fine teeth. I am sure she could put any man under the table in a contest where a tarte was the prize."

"Is there a tarte for which she has expressed a particular liking?"

"Peach."

"That is a happy coincidence. Our peach trees are bursting with fruit. My cooks cannot keep up with the supply. Peaches are offered at every opportunity, from breakfast to tea."

"What a happy coincidence indeed. If there is fruit served this morning, she will pile her plate high with peach slices and possibly sneak some into her pocket."

"Today, sir? Miss Bennet is at Pemberley this morning?"

"I would hazard a guess that Mrs. Gardiner and she are waiting upon your sister at this very minute. They wanted to extend a fraction of the courtesy which Miss Darcy exhibited in calling yesterday at the inn, so soon after her arrival from town."

"How thoughtful of them," Mr. Darcy said.

"It is no more thoughtful than your own thoughtfulness, sir."

Gardiner looked out at the river, humming a light melody. Despite the wealth of options beneath the ripples, few fish were tempted by the bait. Gardiner mused that it must be the poorness of the fishermen causing the dearth. Mr. Darcy smiled politely, and agreed, adding that since the fish appeared little interested in his line, he would rather head into the house for some refreshment and conversation. He offered Gardiner and the other gentlemen to join him, but they all respectfully declined.

"I will not be long," their host assured as he set his pole down and turned away. Mr. Gardiner grinned at Mr. Darcy's practiced nonchalance. Perhaps he was not as opaque as Gardiner had thought.


	14. Chapter 14

AN: So did Wickham distract you? I am curious. Thanks for the reviews. I like Mr. Gardiner, but I love Mr. Darcy. Here he is...

Chapter Fourteen

One Fine Day

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Darcy whistled as he walked up the lawn. He could count on one hand the number of times he had whistled like this, carefree and indifferent to how it might look to others. He passed Phillip who pruned the hedgerows, his gardener scowling in confusion before staring in surprise. Darcy stopped the tune dead on his lips. "Phillip," he said. He did not linger in the awkwardness, moving with quick steps up the drive and into the house.

Taking a breath, he adjusted his jacket and collar in the hallway mirror. Vanity had never been one of his failings, preening in front of his own reflection certainly never his habit, but he had not forgotten what Elizabeth had said to Mrs. Reynolds. He would prefer for Elizabeth to admit to an appreciation for his character, for his heart, for what lay beneath the skin. He would not complain, however, that she apparently did not object to what she saw on the surface. It was somewhere to begin.

Darcy shook his head and stepped away from the looking-glass. The halls were empty and the rooms untouched, but something warm and welcoming wafted through his house, as if Christmas has come early to Pemberley. He jogged up the stairs and marched directly into Georgiana's sitting room.

His gaze was immediately drawn to Elizabeth. She stood by the food cart, biting down on a peach slice. This was the picture he had painted in his mind so many months ago. The one he had thought would be his reality by now. The one he still wanted to be his reality—Elizabeth here at Pemberley—perhaps not this tableau of her nibbling on a piece of fruit—but this idea, this vision of loveliness; her face the one to greet him when he walked into a room, her body the one to lie beside him in bed, her companionship to comfort him for all his days. She turned to him at his entrance, a blush spreading over her cheeks.

"Mr. Darcy!" he heard Caroline Bingley exclaim. "What a delightful surprise."

"I dare not hope it is a surprise to see me at Pemberley, but whether it is a delight, I shall leave it to my guests to decide." He spared Miss Bingley the briefest glance. She was all smiles and sweetness for him and laughed heartily at his joke, shaking a finger and her feathered head at him.

"Oh really," she declared.

He heard her teeter some more, as he watched Elizabeth move over to the sofa and sit down beside Georgiana. He passed the food cart, his appetite absent and his belly full of flutters, and sat on the other side of his sister.

Elizabeth diligently ate the juicy fruits and sandwiches piled high on her plate. Darcy surveyed the other women in the room. Mrs. Annesley and Mrs. Gardiner sat in chintz chairs across from him. Bingley's sisters shared a smaller sofa directly to his right. All the ladies were busy filling their mouths with the refreshments, smiling at each other as if to reassure one another that they were enjoying themselves, except for Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Miss Bingley had set aside her barely-touched plate and was whispering to her sister—something amusing and most certainly unkind, judging by their respective expressions. Darcy had an inkling for what the subject might involve and rolled his gaze away.

"I hope my entrance has not curtailed your conversation," he said, glancing about the room.

"Not at all," Mrs. Annesley answered. "We have been discussing the recent travels of Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Bennet. Mrs. Gardiner and I happen to know some of the same families in this area. Mrs. Gardiner had the pleasure of knowing the Harvey family. Her uncle was the steward at Timberook for a time."

"Timberook is a fine estate," Darcy said.

"Yes, and the late Mr. Harvey was always very kind to my uncle." Mrs. Gardiner smiled, brushing the crumbs from her fingertips. "I do believe, sir, though that he took his cues, so to speak, from your father, who was a truly great and generous man."

"Thank you, Mrs. Gardiner. The praise is all the more appreciated coming from someone as kind as yourself." Elizabeth's aunt smiled warmly at him. Darcy had not spoken any untruth but he could not deny that he likely harbored some biased opinions in favor of Elizabeth's aunt and uncle for being the means of bringing their niece into his home. He smiled with his eyes at the soft-faced woman and turned to Georgiana, observing Elizabeth on the sly.

"Do you not think it kind of Mrs. Gardiner to say such a thing, Georgiana?

Georgiana nodded.

"The same could be said of the son and daughter," Miss Bingley added, inserting herself into the conversation. "I was just discussing with Louisa how much admiration abounds for the Darcy name in Derbyshire. It is almost unique in this day and age to have that level of confidence from the common people."

"Yes, I agree," Mrs. Annesley said. "Although, I do think that there are other great families with good reputations, from the south to the north. I have had the privilege of working for several gracious households, throughout this beautiful region."

"I cannot express how full my heart has been as we have traveled here," Mrs. Gardiner said. "Dovedale, in particular, was beautiful on the day we hiked there."

Darcy touched his sister on the shoulder, a fond memory flitting into his mind. "Have you told Mrs. Gardiner and Miss Bennet, Georgiana, of the first time you visited Dovedale?"

"No, I have not," his sister responded.

"I would dearly love to hear it," Elizabeth eagerly said. It was the first time she had spoken since he had entered the room. Darcy caught her shining eye in his gaze, a subtle smile on his lips, and she granted him that twinkle of her dimple in response.

"Oh, please do share Georgiana!" Miss Bingley exclaimed. "I do not think that I have heard you tell this tale."

"It is not very remarkable."

"Not very remarkable, but very memorable," Darcy said. "Go on. I am sure Miss Bennet will find it amusing. She loves to laugh."

Georgiana swallowed loudly and faced Elizabeth, who had blushed at his compliment. "I was only six or seven when I visited there with my brother and our cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam—"

"Miss Bennet has met our cousin, Georgiana. By chance, she was visiting her cousin and friend in Kent when Fitzwilliam and I went to Rosings. Her cousin has the Hunsford living."

"Oh, what a marvelous coincidence." Georgiana grinned, turning her head from Elizabeth to him. "I did not realize that you had seen each other since Hertfordshire."

"Nor had I," Mrs. Hurst said in a wispy aside.

"It seems that you have kept that a secret, Mr. Darcy." Miss Bingley tisked. "And you also Miss Eliza. You did not tell us that you had seen Mr. Darcy at his aunt's house. It must have been a momentary event to have escaped both your recollections."

"We saw each other almost every day," Elizabeth declared, her chin rising slightly, that almost martial set to her jaw.

"Did you indeed?" Miss Bingley replied. "And yet neither of you mentioned its occurrence until now."

"I am much more interested in hearing Miss Darcy's story, at the moment. I am certain it will be far more entertaining than a recital of what I or Mr. Darcy may have done in Kent several months ago."

Elizabeth cast Darcy a knowing look. The faintest prickle of embarrassment burned underneath his skin. He merely nodded and encouraged Georgiana to finish her story for Miss Bennet's pleasure, eager to move forward. Thankfully, his sister obliged—effectively silencing her friend.

Darcy relaxed into the sofa, blatant in his admiration of Elizabeth. She laughed and cheered Georgiana on at precisely the right moments—more entertaining to watch than hearing his sister's amusing recital of that first visit to Dovedale when she had skipped off to the caves in search of treasure, becoming lost to her family for over an hour, and returned with her pockets full of goslings—and an angry mother goose at her heels.

"Now tell Miss Bennet _why_ you had snatched the poor goslings from their mother's care," Darcy said, an unfamiliar spark in his gaze.

"I was very silly, and very young. I suppose I thought that one of them had to be the golden goose from my storybooks. I was dreadfully wrong and received instead a nasty bite from their mother for my gross error."

Everyone in the room laughed, the female notes harmonizing with Darcy's lone baritone voice. Georgiana hid her laugh behind a cupped hand, peeking at her brother through lowered lashes. Despite the diminutive pose, he perceived a subtle bloom of newfound faith in herself that only an hour with Elizabeth had nurtured, and it warmed him. As kindling to a steady blaze, it shot sparks throughout his body. Right here, these two women, were his entire world. He was tired of Georgiana living for months in town with tutors and lady's companions—as genteel and good as Mrs. Annesley was. He was tired of worrying about her lack of female love and affection. He was tired of his own loneliness. "If you belonged at Rosings, amongst my people there, you were designed for Pemberley. It was designed for you," he thought, wistful and yet determined, looking at Elizabeth continue her conversation with his sister.

Some of his caution from the defeat of spring was fading away, the surge of joy banishing his reserve. He had little hope of changing her heart, but all the will to reveal to her his unchanged heart. And at this moment, he really did not care what anyone but the woman whom he loved thought of him.

"Have you spoken more of your love of music, Georgiana? Miss Bennet has a far better ear than I can lend you."

"We have not spoken about music today."

"You both favor the later works of Handel and the early works of Mozart. And of course, Miss Bennet has a deep, abiding respect for the rigor of—"

"Bach," Elizabeth finished for him, a curious gleam to her expression.

Their gazes remained transfixed, blended together in a steady, unbroken bond—scrutiny from the lady and adoration from the gentleman. He wanted to know if she had seen any change in him. If she liked the change she might have seen. Elizabeth looked away first, picking up where Darcy had led and asking Georgiana which Baroque piece she preferred playing more than all the rest.

Georgiana and Elizabeth spoke for a few minutes about music, as Darcy listened and watched. Impatient to further the budding friendship, Darcy had just asked about a new composition he had heard his sister practice yesterday afternoon when Miss Bingley's cold voice cut through the air.

"Pray, Miss Eliza," she icily began. Slowly Darcy turned to her, the sneer setting his teeth on edge. He heard her ask Elizabeth if the regiment was still quartered near Meryton and how the Bennet family was handling the loss. Darcy's jaw clamped down in anger. He could feel the sofa shift next to him as Georgiana hardened to stone. Bingley's sister knew nothing about Georgiana's near elopement with Wickham, but she knew of Darcy's disdain for Wickham, knew that such a bald-faced allusion to their sworn enemy would not go unnoticed. Jealousy was an ugly shade of green on any complexion, but Miss Bingley wore it remarkably worse than most. He searched for something to say, his words jumbled by his worry for his sister, when Elizabeth spoke up and ended his frustration.

"It is no greater loss than your departure was, Miss Bingley, I assure you," she blandly said. "And to answer your previous question, Mr. Darcy, I am in awe of her grasp of all the modern composers' various styles. She mentioned the new piece which she is learning at present, and I am eager to hear it as soon as she is comfortable to perform it."

Elizabeth smiled kindly at Georgiana, but his sister barely managed to waver a tepid smile in return. Darcy doubted his sister would recover before the visit ended. He did not want Elizabeth to think less of Georgiana for her sudden withdrawal. Thankfully, Elizabeth was not deterred by his sister's reticence.

"I look forward to hearing you play, Miss Darcy," Elizabeth said. She glanced up at Darcy, concern etched into her face, concern and something else—protectiveness. No matter what she felt for him, he knew in that instant that she had believed his letter. And more than mere belief, she wanted to act on her good faith in his account and be a shield for Georgiana. Darcy had never loved her more.

"Perhaps you will play a duet with Georgiana, tomorrow evening," he said.

"Perhaps I may," she agreed.

Another intimate look passed between them. Darcy was almost undone. He would have easily lost himself in her gaze, entranced by the closeness of the moment and the high from the bond forged by their shared secret about his sister—but before complete abandonment, Mrs. Gardiner disrupted the spell.

"I would love to hear both of you play," the lady said, flicking her gaze to the clock on the mantle. "And if it were not already so late in the day already, I would petition you now."

Her pronouncement prompted a flurry of farewells, ranging from the timid adieus of Georgiana to the frosty nods of Bingley's sisters. Darcy offered to escort the guests to their carriage, giving a quick, tender pat to his subdued sister as he rose from the sofa. Elizabeth must have noticed the kindness, for she graced him with another small, warm smile, before thanking Georgiana for her hospitality.

Not much was said as Darcy led Elizabeth and her aunt down to their carriage. They had already taken a tour of the house, and he could think of nothing to add to what Mrs. Reynolds would have told them about the vase or two that they passed on their path down to the front door. He had no other purpose for a delay than a wish to hold Elizabeth captive for a moment longer. Later that evening, he recollected that they had walked by a famed Dutch portraitist's depiction of his grandmother, which hung in a private room not usually opened to the public and wished that he had shown it to Elizabeth. It was not the grandeur of the artist's acclaim but the detail of the delicate necklace that adorned his grandmother's neck which he would have liked to point out. The deep cerulean sapphires matched Elizabeth's mystifying eye color, and at one time he had imagined giving the heirloom to her as a wedding gift.

They reached the entryway and Mrs. Gardiner paused at the hallway mirror (where Darcy had inspected himself earlier) and commented on the pleasant coolness of the house, fretting somewhat over what the heat must be doing to her husband's health. Darcy assured her that he would shortly return to the gentlemen, adding that she need not worry about Mr. Gardiner: "He is the stoutest of them all, and the most skilled. Before I went away, he was the only one to have caught a fish." Mrs. Gardiner looked rather pleased, and surprised, by her husband's good luck.

Darcy accompanied the two ladies out the front door and into their carriage, assisting the aunt first and the niece second. He could not be sure, but he had thought Elizabeth looked almost wistful when he released her hand. He whistled again, a soft lullaby tune that brushed loosely over his lips as he watched the carriage drive away.

Contemplative, he headed back to the sitting room. He wanted to ensure that Georgiana had returned to her normal self before joining the gentlemen again. The fish and the fishermen would neither notice nor care about his tardiness. Miss Bingley's voice floated out from the room before he entered it, and he paused at the tone of her conversation. Frowning, he walked into the room and sat down beside his sister once more. Georgiana attempted a smile, and he offered her a small smile in reply. The effort was hard-made, as Miss Bingley was headway into a clumsy assault against Elizabeth. He tried to ignore her, answering her pointed question about Elizabeth's altered complexion through clenched teeth. The lady refused to read his mood and cease her senseless speech, and he was compelled to put an end to her vituperative exclamations with an honest admission of his own —that he considered Elizabeth one of the handsomest women of his acquaintances.

Assured of Georgiana's comfort from that little smile, he quit the room before he said something about what he currently considered Miss Bingley to be. By the time he met up with the gentlemen, his good mood had returned. How could it not? Never mind Miss Bingley's silly attack, she was an insect buzzing in the ear of a queen.

"Did you find the refreshment you were seeking, sir?" Mr. Gardiner asked Darcy as he picked up his pole and some tackle.

"I did," Darcy replied. "Most definitely."


	15. Chapter 15

AN: Here is the next chapter. And I think that there is a significant age gap between Mr. Gardiner and his wife, but I like the idea of a young Mr. Gardiner. It gets my variation, what-if mind a-spinning. :) (My reason for an older Gardiner is that he left the family business and had to put in a lot of time and long nights before being able to get married...but again, I like the idea of a young Gardiner.)

Chapter Fifteen

Look Who's Talking

Fitzwilliam Darcy

The evening at Pemberley passed in the same predictable manner that it had the night before: the gentlemen talked, the ladies sang, and somewhere outside the dogs bayed. Darcy avoided Caroline Bingley as he would a harlot's pox. To her credit, she seemed to respect his desire for separation from her and exercised her incredible wit and talent for conversation in the entertainment of Georgiana.

Bingley distracted Darcy with an anecdote from the morning's failed fishing expedition, concluding that Mr. Gardiner must have dipped his bait in sweet rum while the other men were looking in a different direction.

"I do not believe I have ever had such bad luck on a line," he declared. "I would have done better if I had waded out into the water and attempted to catch a fish with my bare hands."

Darcy smiled, but could hardly disagree. Fishing required patience and tranquility, which were not really Bingley's fortes. He reminded his friend of this, drawing a chuckle from even Mr. Hurst.

The evening winded down shortly after this exchange, the party retiring for the night in quiet familiarity. Darcy and Georgiana walked arm in arm up the stairs, rounding the corner toward the family apartments. In the seclusion of their long hallway, his sister stopped suddenly and asked, with her head down and her voice low, if Miss Bennet knew of her history with Wickham, and if Miss Bennet did know, how had she come to learn of it. "For it is not something that one brings up in usual conversation. It must have been something very particular, and personal," she said, biting her lip and at last looking up at him, "to have inspired that kind of intimacy."

An unanticipated shame settled over Darcy, a sharp, bitter moment of self-reproach. In all his agonizing over how much to tell Elizabeth and how much to conceal from her about Wickham's past, he had never once contemplated how Georgiana would feel about him divulging _her_ past to a nominal stranger. Although still an unnatural sensation, the apology for his thoughtless oversight fell fast and frankly from his lips.

"Please forgive me, my dear. I should have warned you that Miss Bennet learned of Wickham's mistreatment of you. In fact, I ought to have asked for your permission in the first place, before confiding in her about such a vulnerable time in your life."

Georgiana clasped his hand, shaking her head. "I trust you completely. You must know this. I tremble to think how you would have despised me had I gone ahead with the elopement."

"I never would despise you."

"I would have despised me. My one solace in all of this is that I confessed all to you, and to Richard, on my own, relying upon my own will and heart." She released her grasp and stepped back, biting her lip once more. "Tell me true, did you confide in Miss Bennet because she was at risk of falling into Mr. Wickham's trap? Is he the reason you argued with her? Is that why Caroline asked about his regiment—because he had insinuated himself into Miss Bennet's heart, publicly and incautiously?"

"Those are weighty questions, with weightier answers."

"Do they possess any merit?"

"I do not know what Miss Bennet felt for Mr. Wickham," Darcy carefully said. "But it is true that my suspicions about their nature obligated me to disclose his past dealings with our family to her. Whether she was an object of desire to him, or merely a pawn for his own amusement, I cannot say. Regardless of his motivations, he had convinced her that I had gravely wronged him. And honor bound me to correct her misunderstanding of his character."

"And has it been corrected? Does she know what kind of man Mr. Wickham truly is?"

"I believe she does."

"Believe? It is a matter of faith? You cannot say that you know it to be so? Please, I am not trying to be difficult. I simply do not understand. When you told her about him, including his history with me, she doubted you?"

Darcy hesitated. He had not uttered single word aloud about his failed proposal since that long carriage ride with Fitzwilliam. When the colonel had briefly visited for Darcy's birthday, his cousin had made no allusion to his deepest regret. Darcy reached out for his sister, touching her lightly on the arm, and discovered his resolve.

"I wrote Miss Bennet a letter of explanation about Wickham, and other misunderstandings, and gave it to her on the morning after she had refused my offer of marriage."

Georgiana flinched at his softly-spoken confession. He could feel the shudder in her arm beneath his hand, and the paleness in her cheeks. She started to say something, but he shook his head, entreating her to remain silent.

"Mr. Wickham is not the reason, not the main reason, she rejected me. I will not burden you with the unpleasant details of my failure and foolishness. As I told you on my birthday, I said some unkind things to Miss Bennet, things which I will regret saying for as long as I breathe, or at least, until I am too old to remember the things I once said as a young man."

He dropped his hand, and waited—for what, he was not sure. Exposing himself in this way, particularly to a person whom he was supposed to protect, was new and uncomfortable. He would prefer to be the one giving comfort, then the one receiving it. And he had not told Georgiana to curry pity. He had told her to absolve his previous disregard for her feelings. Georgiana inhaled and exhaled with heavy breaths, staring up at him with a shocked expression mingled with sadness.

"Will you be well?" he asked. "I knew these tidings would come as a surprise, but I am beginning to doubt now whether I should have said anything."

Georgiana took a few more breaths and adjusted her posture. "I am the one who should be asking if you are well, not the one in need of comfort." Her face crumpled again. "How you must have suffered, William! How you must still suffer! How have you endured this in silence? Has no one been your confidant?"

"Oh, dear," Darcy reached for her arm, pulling her into a fatherly embrace, "any sorrow I have felt is done away in seeing your own misery. It was difficult, at first, but I am recovered. Do not fret over my well-being."

She sniffled into his shirt and mumbled some unknowable reply. He held her for a minute or two until her shoulders ceased shaking, and gently led her to her door. She paused with her hand on the doorknob, and said to him in a guileless way, "I will take comfort in the knowledge that she has forgiven you, and now wants to be your friend—as well as mine." With an innocent smile of hope, she opened her door and entered her room.

Darcy slowly continued onto his chambers, reflecting on the word friend. He did not wonder if he desired a friendship with Elizabeth—he would count himself lucky should she consider him a friend—but he must decide if friendship would be enough for him. He remained deep in thought as he readied for bed, only speaking to excuse his valet for the night. That single question occupied his mind: Could he be satisfied with mere friendship with her? He walked into his antechamber, his gaze resting on his vast, empty bed. No, he answered himself, he would not be content with friendship. But it was a place to start.

"I'll go to her tomorrow morning," he said, climbing into bed, the sheets frigid against his skin. "And ask her if we might begin again, begin for the first time, in truth."

He stretched out onto his mattress, throwing his hands above his head and staring up at the ceiling. Gentler remanences drifted into his mind. He no longer must imagine what it would be like to see Elizabeth at Pemberley. He could remember it.


	16. Chapter 16

AN: Hello! Thanks for the reviews. If I move anyone at all to feel something real with my writing, it makes all the hours of writing and late nights with a sleeping baby beside me worth it. I know this is just me playing off of someone else's brilliance, a fun thing for me to do that has helped me in so many ways, but it means the world to me if I have stirred some authentic emotions in those who read my stuff. Because that is why I to read, and what I like to dream I can do with my writing. I' writing a couple original pieces and starting query letters and such, a scary process, made slightly less daunting by this fanfic process. So thanks, really. Oh, and Guest, thanks for the head's up. I don't know why Dovedale became Dove Dell...ha. Here is the chapter. I will post tomorrow, as well, but take the weekend as a break. And I plan on posting a couple chapters next week but then I will have to pause my posting for about a week as travel and holiday festivities go into high gear. Happy reading!

Chapter Sixteen

Newsroom

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Darcy woke in the morning, an unmistakable lightness within him. It took him until he saw Georgiana at breakfast to realize that his sister was the reason. Something had lifted from him last night. In retelling Georgiana about his proposal, something had sloughed off from his soul. Raw with emotion, keen with a purpose, he embraced the unanticipated sensation.

Bingley and Mr. Hurst were determined to redeem themselves from yesterday and proposed a plan to fish again this morning. Darcy replied that he must attend to some business in Lambton, wishing them well on their second attempt. Before departing the house, he took it upon himself to ensure that all was in order for their dinner this evening, reminding Mrs. Reynolds for the second time to have the cook serve as many peach-filled dishes as there were recipes.

The ride to Lambton passed in a blur, the sweetness of anticipation a welcome traveling companion for the short trip into town. The innkeeper managed to keep his calm much better on Darcy's second appearance, and his wife only startled a little, spilling barely half her kettle of water. The innkeeper rightly anticipated Darcy's designs in calling at their inn so early in the day, and immediately asked the Gardiner's servant, who chatted with the innkeeper's son, to take their "noble frequenter" to the Gardiner's rooms.

Darcy adjusted his cufflinks as he ascended the staircase. That pit of excitement which marked his interactions with Elizabeth coiled in his belly, and the under of his collar went sticky with perspiration. He could not recall the words that he had carefully planned out last night. He had intended on broaching the budding friendship with Georgiana, on saying something about his sister's gratitude and eagerness to further the acquaintance. Beyond that, he had decided to let fate guide him. Planning what to say had not exactly worked well for him in the past with Elizabeth.

With the woman he loved a few more footfalls away, a proposal of friendship seemed painfully, even wrongfully, insufficient. It would be deceitful to petition her chaste, platonic companionship when he craved so much more. He would rather remain silent, then bind himself to false expectations.

The servant opened the door, and Darcy started. Elizabeth stood in the doorway, her face ghostly white and her eyes glossy with fright. Forget about prudently selected topics and preconstructed confessions, all conversation fled his mind at the look upon her face. In a breathy accent that he could hardly decipher, she exclaimed that she must beg his pardon and leave immediately to find her uncle on a dire matter of business.

"Good god!" he exclaimed. "What is the matter?"

She clasped her hand around her neck, her mouth open in shock—from his outburst or whatever was troubling her, he knew not. He clamped down on his own panic and asked in a calmer voice to let him or a servant go fetch Mr. Gardiner. "You are not well," he stressed, stepping into the room. "You cannot go yourself."

Elizabeth wavered, at length nodding and beckoning the Gardiner's servant back, her words a rush of rough syllables. The servant must have better ears than Darcy did, for he immediately fled out the doorway and down the hall. Elizabeth collapsed onto a chair, her entire frame trembling. Ignorant of what troubled her, he offered to call for her maid or bring her a glass of wine.

She refused his suggestion, designating the source of her heartache as some dreadful news from home. Suddenly, her brittle control broke apart under a deluge of tears. Darcy watched, helpless. It required all his considerable resolve to stifle his instinct to hold her, and without knowing the why, promise her that she would be well. Impotent to do anything for her, these minutes edged by in muted agony. If it had been formality alone barring his embrace of her, he would have reached out for her, throwing the rules of society into the wayside, but it was so much more—their long, tortuous history of misunderstandings, that gulf which he had prayed might be tenuously bridged today—rooted him to the spot, compelling him to silently grind his fists and kick against the pricks.

"I am your servant," he uselessly mumbled, suffocating from his own powerlessness.

After a miserable time, she painfully began to enlighten him further on the source of her sorrow—and with each sob of revelation, his horror multiplied. He could not comprehend every word which gasped out from her, but he understood enough.

Foolishly, recklessly, her youngest sister had run away with none other than George Wickham. The instant Darcy heard it, he knew he must rectify it. And added to his frustration at his own wretched inability to console the woman whom he loved was the dawning certainty that his pride had led him astray in another serious matter.

He should have revealed Wickham for the black-hearted lech that he was the day that the interloper had swaggered into Meryton. "Fool," Darcy silently cursed at himself. "Time and time again, I have been as great a fool as Wickham has been a fiend." Of course, Wickham was culpable in this affair, but so was he. As for Lydia Bennet, annoying and aggravating, she most certainly was, but she was no more at fault than Georgiana had been. But for the grace of God, this could have been Georgiana, Darcy thought.

Furious at himself, he pelted Elizabeth with a series of questions about the accuracy of the report, about what had been done to find and recover her sister, and where the couple had last been seen. She answered him in a voice thick with heartache and drearily admitted at one point that her eyes had indeed been opened to Wickham's true character. Darcy found little solace in that woeful confession. So she had believed his letter after all. Every man and woman in Hertfordshire should have known that truth. And they should have known another truth. Every man and woman in Hertfordshire should have believed him incapable of the falsities with which Wickham had maligned his actions. That thought struck Darcy with a sharp, cruel blow. Had his own manners been kinder, had his own heart been softer, none of this could have come to pass. Lydia Bennet would be happily flirting with some bucktoothed, harmless red-coat, the maids of Meryton whom Wickham had undoubtedly debauched would have been spared, and more saliently, Elizabeth Bennet would not be sitting before him, wracked with worry and regret.

There was much to be done—and all of it reprehensible. Darcy knew Wickham better than anyone, as shameful as that was to admit. He could find the rat in whatever hovel he had scurried into for escape. And like all rats, he knew Wickham would abandon his hiding place for a big enough slice of cheese. As if rising above a sickening fog, Darcy saw the repugnant landscape he would be forced to slog through in his search for Wickham and Miss Lydia. But it must be done. And done by him.

Suddenly, Darcy became aware of his own back and forth steps. He stopped his errant pacing and stared down at his beautiful, distraught Elizabeth. How he ached to touch her sweet face and wipe those tears from her cheeks. But he could not reach for her. He could not even speak to her of his plans. By his hand this situation had occurred, and by his hand it would be resolved. She would not be burdened any more by his mistakes.

Gently, he interrupted her crying, concealing more than he was saying: "I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day."

She entreated him for his secrecy and begged that he send his apologies to Georgiana and make her excuses for dinner.

"You may rest assured of my secrecy." He paused, choosing his next words with care: "I cannot express to you the sorrow I feel for your unnecessary distress, but I wish that there will be a happier end than the one for which you presently have reason to hope. Please give Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner my compliments."

Darcy looked at her a moment longer before leaving the room, memorizing the precise shape of her red-rimmed eyes, how they bowed at the ends from the weight of her tears. He would remember this sad picture of her should his determination wane or his fatigue overwhelm. "Goodbye," he whispered as the door shuffled close.


	17. Chapter 17

_AN: Short chapter, because I realized I need to include this in the previous chapter. Thanks for reading and reviewing._

 _And some context from how I interpret things from my first volume-I think that Wickham was much more nefarious and Mrs. Younge much more notorious in their plot to ensnare Georgiana. I wanted to show the level of their perfidy, and add a little more shock value to what happens in the plain print of P &P, to show some of the underbelly of society. This is all to explain that I have Darcy discover that Mrs. Younge's papers had been falsified after he dismisses her in the summer and it is not until at a racaous party during the winter at a former schoolmate named Sir Lawrence's home that he spies Mrs. Younge and realizes that she is a lady of the night. "Boarding" house at the time was sometimes the front name for a bawdy house. So I have her as the bawd. I like how this adds to the depths that Darcy has to go to in order to rescue Lydia Bennet from herself. (Wickham and Lydia are not at the bawdy house). So that is what I mention some down below. Also, I have included before the chapter the story that I tell of how Bingley and Darcy met. Again, this is all for context. Enjoy! _

_"Darcy rolled over onto his side. The moonlight streamed in through the drapes. The wallpaper shimmered with a velvety texture, and he smirked. The greatest irony of his friendship with Bingley was how it had all begun, or rather, where it had all begun._

 _Bingley had just started his first term, and Darcy was stopping over at Cambridge to visit an aging fellow. A mutual Cambridge acquaintance had separately cajoled them into entering a certain establishment of ill-repute. Standing awkwardly near the velvet-draped entrance, with their eyes pegged longingly on the gilded front door, the two young men had discovered their similar views on virtue. Bingley had been the first to say something, making a joke about the excess of crimson in the room, and Darcy had laughed, wondering if the strange, slight young man to his left was aware of how crimson his cheeks were. After discussing their reluctance in coming to the brothel, Darcy and Bingley had abandoned the sweltering place, and their peers, and become fast friends—a singular occurrence for Darcy."_

Chapter Seventeen

Chariots of Fire

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Time was of the essence. On his ride back to Pemberley, Darcy planned out all the tasks he must complete before leaving for town: notify his steward, alert his staff, make his excuses to his guests, and talk with his sister. His horse's hooves pounded down the lane, and he ticked off the pretexts he could offer his guests and his sister. The easiest and truest justification for his sudden, rapid departure would be to keep it vague and tell them that an urgent affair in London demanded his attention. Something did not sit right with Darcy about that explanation, and by the time he galloped into Pemberley's stables, he decided to only conceal the truth from his friends. Georgiana should know the real reason why he was about to abandon her with a house full of guests. Unlike the others, she would understand why _he_ must be the one to discover Wickham and his captive.

The remainder of the day consisted of a flurry of activity and hasty conversations. He hardly sat down from the moment he arrived back home until the evening—when he ate his soup in relative silence, listening to Caroline Bingley exclaim her delight in the small dinner party and noticing his sister's subdued countenance, Georgiana's response to the absence of her new friend markedly different than the response of her old friend. He caught her gaze, smiling in a way that did not touch his eyes.

Minutes before dinner, he had informed her of the unsavory truth behind his trip down to town. She had taken the news as well as he could have hoped, urging him to leave as soon as possible. "Mr. Wickham is not to be trusted. Poor Miss Bennet! Poor Miss Bennet's sister! I shall pray for you," she had cried, after recovering from the shock. Darcy had assured her that he would do all in his power to make things right. Gratitude for the openness and generosity of her heart had surged within him, and instinctively, he had kissed her on the forehead, before exiting his office.

Darcy knew he would need all the good luck and godly intervention that the universe could spare him to survive the days ahead. During those brief interims of inactivity today, as he had waited for his steward to come in from the fields or a letter to finish drying, he had contemplated more fully what the endeavor would entail. And the looming prospect was anything but pretty. The first step he planned on taking once in town filled him with dread.

As if on cue, Bingley called down to him from the other side of the table and demanded that he join the conversation. "Unless you mean to frighten all your guests into an early bedtime tonight so that you might have your cherished solitude this evening, pray do share with us what makes you so thoughtful."

Darcy rapped his fingers on the table, his expression inscrutable. "I was thinking of the night we met," he replied. "Or rather, _where_ we met."

Bingley's eyes bulged, and he choked on his food. Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, and Georgiana gasped, the youngest and the eldest of the women asking if he was alright. Bingley waved at them and nodded. "Yes, yes," he coughed. "I am just a poor eater."

"It happens to the best of us," Mr. Hurst asserted rather forcefully.

"Really, Charles!" Louisa exhaled. "You gave me a fright. I thought for sure you were going to need Mr. Hurst to fish a bone out from your neck. And over what? You reacted as though Mr. Darcy had said something scandalous, and not an inconsequential allusion to Bodley's Court."

"You are quite right, Louisa." Bingley glanced sheepishly at Darcy. "There is nothing shocking about the dormitory where I first met Darcy."

"Indeed," Darcy answered, completing the lie that Bingley and he had upheld as truth for these past several years. "There is not."

"Again, my deepest apologies, Darcy. I suppose my mind had started thinking about tartes—the dessert tartes from last night's dinner."

Darcy and he shared a subtle smirk at the joke. It was the first whisper of a laugh that had touched Darcy's lips since this morning, and it vanished before it had the chance to flourish.

Darcy had not been lying to Bingley. Despite what most genteel maids and matrons believed, that tidy boarding house on Edward Street owned by a certain Mrs. Younge was in fact one of the more well-reputed London establishments of ill-repute. during that inexplicable period when he had imagined that he could replace Elizabeth and reshape his heart for someone else.

Darcy loathed Mrs. Younge for what she had done to Georgiana, almost more than he despised Wickham. That scoundrel had been a known predator. Mrs. Younge had disguised herself as a respectable and doting caretaker to his sister. Darcy could never forgive the betrayal or forget her duplicity. But to her, he would go. For Elizabeth, he would go.

Miss Bingley recommenced praising the delights of an intimate dinner with favored and fewer friends, and Darcy dutifully finished his meal. Over the next couple hours, he remained distracted, his focus fixed on the morrow. Bingley did not attempt to wrangle him into more conversation, and he experienced a surge of gratitude for his friend. Darcy's first visit to a brothel had furnished him with Bingley and an amusing, untellable story; he doubted his second visit would be as accommodating. Hopefully, it would be doubly useful.

He soon retired to bed, ready in mind and body to set of in the morning. His first stop would be to Sir Lawrence's house. If anyone knew of Wickham's whereabouts, it was Mrs. Younge. And if anyone knew of Mrs. Younge's whereabouts, it was undoubtedly the baron of brothels Sir Lawrence.

AN: Next chapter on Monday. And Guest, I love comparing different Austen analysis. Because for me, I think it's implied that Mr. Gardiner is a fair amount older than his wife, for two reasons, really. One, because Austen specifically points out the younger age of Mrs. Gardiner, but does not do the same for Mr. Gardiner, and two, when Mrs. Bennet says that had her brother not married, all his money would have gone to her children anyway, a statement which I infer means that there was a time (a lengthy time even perhaps?) when she had assumed her brother may remain a bachelor. In fact, and this is just my fancy, I think that Mrs. Bennet is the youngest of her siblings. But that is mainly because I draw so many parallels between Mrs. Bennet and Lydia. I've never read fashionable as a euphemism for age, either. Just dress and demeanor. I think he's a hip fifty year old, though. :-P


	18. Chapter 18

_AN: Sorry for the delay! I had wanted to get this up by Monday, but that didn't happen and then I couldn't even manage to get it published by last night. But this will have to be the last post until after Christmas. I kind of thought this might happen when I posted last Friday._

 _But thank you for all the critiques and reviews and conversation. I hope every one, regardless of culture or creed, enjoys this time of year. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!_

 _The next chapter after my 'holiday' will be Collins, but I will also post the chapter about Darcy in London, where hopefully all questions will be answered. :) Cheers and Happy Reading!_

Chapter Eighteen

Thomas Bennet

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

It was not a dreary day. In fact, the weather was remarkably grand. A soft, warm breeze wafted through the air, and sunshine trickled down from the sky as sweet and golden as honey. Thomas Bennet leaned against a nearby lamp post and sighed, a frown upsetting his placid face. "What a bother! What a blasted, foolhardy bother!" he thought, tapping his walking stick loudly against the London pavement. Nothing about the cheerful day could bolster his mood. To him, it seemed as if the very heavens were mocking him.

He had arrived in town only an hour ago, his back sore and his eyes heavy. His search for his errant daughter and her rascally— _lover_ —he stuttered over the despicable word—had thus far fizzled out in tatty, frayed ends and useless misinformation. He knew she had not gone to Gretna Greene, before he had even finished reading the news of her elopement. He knew the instant that rider had banged on his door that the knell of truth was coming fast and furious for him. He knew it as clearly and surely as he knew that his daughter was here, somewhere in the vast, hiding places of London. His journey to Epsom and Clapham had yielded no fruit, as he had suspected. So here he stood, fatigued, hungry, and above all, disgusted.

Regret was not something to which Bennet often fell victim. Over the years, he had become a kind of expert in the art of ignoring regret. Like the famed fire-eaters from the far reaches of the world, he could open wide his mouth and consume that blazing fury of what-ifs and if-onlys. His marriage had offered him little else apart from amusement and a gaggle of women. The one additional boon, unexpected though it was, had come in the form of this unusual talent for accepting the present as it is and forgetting the past as it was. This talent had been very useful, but apparently, like all other gifts, it was not immune from weakness. Even the greatest fire-eaters must occasionally burn their tongues. Lydia's foolish flight with a worthless redcoat was a scalding, searing injury to Bennet's pride; a tangy, bitter thing that left his wit charred and his amusement dry. He was disgusted with his daughter, disgusted with her mother, and most especially, disgusted with himself.

As specters from the grave, the words of his wisest and favorite daughter rose up before him, scolding him from the past spring: "Excuse me, for I must speak plainly," his Lizzy had begged. "If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her—" That was all the reminiscences Bennet would permit, for that was all that he could handle. He did not need to recall the remainder of her pleas. Lizzy had seen something he had not; Lizzy had known, perhaps because she herself was a young woman and privy to the workings of the minds of young woman, that Lydia was no the brink of disaster and ruin.

"And I had laughed at her insight! I would laugh still at it, if not for the ruin which must come upon all my daughters—upon even my Lizzy!"

Bennet loved each of his daughters. He was not a heartless wretch of a man, but nor was he one of those fathers whose souls and hearts resided in the souls and hearts of his offspring. He loved books and philosophy, the quiet of nature and the quirks of humanity. His life was enriched by his daughters, from a source of spectacle or a source of contentment, but they were not the source of his fulfillment. In truth, he had never sought achievement. He merely craved peace. Lydia had ruined that peace, and while he could have forgiven her that, and even derided her folly, he could not ignore the disaster she had rained down upon her sisters. Bennet would never forgive himself for opening his dear Lizzie or his sweet Jane or even his blockheaded Mary and Kitty to shame and indignity.

Bennet straightened up, tucked his walking stick underneath his elbow, and marched ahead. He would ask about his daughter at the hotels which the concierge at his own hotel had suggested as hubs of middling gentry and almost-respectable people of fashion. As he turned onto a market street, he spotted a young flower girl in the lane stealing a peach from a distracted fruit vendor. The girl's eyes locked with his and Bennet could not help but wink at her talent for thievery. To his surprise, she winked back at him, bowing with a fancy flourish before she scampered away into the alley.

Even in his dismal mood, there was still room in Bennet's life for a good, hearty chuckle.


End file.
